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ANECDOTE    BIOGRAPHIES 


THACKERAY   AND    DICKENS 


BRIC-A-BRAC  SERIES. 


INITIAL  VOLUME. 


PERSONAL    REMINISCENCES 

BY 

CHORLEY,  PLANCHE,  AND  YOUNG. 

i  vol.  square  i2m0,  $1.50. 
Sent  post-paid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  Publishers. 


ANECDOTE  BIOGRAPHIES 


OF 


THACKERAY  AND   DICKENS 

EDITED   BY 

RICHARD   HENRY    STODDARD 


NEW    YORK 

SCRIBNER,   ARMSTRONG,   AND   COMPANY 
1874 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG,  AND  COMPANY, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED     AND     PRINT  HI)     BY 
H.    O.    HOUGHTON    AND    COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 
HAUD  IMMEMOK.  —  THACKERAY  IN  AMERICA 
THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER  .        .        .' 
SOME  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY      .'.   .   , 
A  FRIEND  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD 
A  CHILD'S  GLIMPSE  OF  THACKERAY 
HODDER'S  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY  . 
THE  "  SNOB  "  .        . 

THACKERAY  IN  PARIS     .        .        . 
THE  DIGNITY  OF  LITERATURE          .        . 
PERSONAL  APPEARANCE  OF  THACK F.KAY  .     . 
THACKERAY  —  YATES  —  DICKENS 
ROBERT  BELL'S  WATCH  .        .        .        .        >. 

THACKERAY'S  LAST  ILLNESS 

SHIRLEY  BROOKS  ON  THACKERAY         .  *     . 

JAMES  ?!ANNAY  ON  THACKERAY 

IN  MEMORIAM         ...... 

OBITUARY  POKMS         .  . 


PAGH 

I 

21 

93 

102 
1 06 
109 
I32 

139 

144 

150 

'54 

160 
162 
164 
174 
187 
IQI 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 

DICKENS'S  EARLIEST  WRITINGS 
POPULARITY  OF  "  PICKWICK  " 
"PICKWICK"  DRAMATIZED 
THE  FIRST  HINT  OF  "PICKWICK' 


^035 


197 
203 

207 
208 


Viii  CONTENTS. 

DICKENS  A  DRAMATIST 209 

"OLIVER  TWIST"    .        . 211 

POETICAL  EPISTLE  FROM  FATHER  PROUT         .        ;        .  212 

DICKENS  AND  IRVING      .        .        .     '.        .        .  213 

DICKENS  AS  AN  ACTOR       .......  218 

DICKENS  AS  A  JOURNALIST     .        .        .        .        .        .  219 

DICKENS  AND  THACKERAY         .        .        .        .        .        .  222 

JULIAN  YOUNG  ON  DICKENS  AND  THACKERAY    .        .  223 

"  NOT  SO  BAD  AS  WE  SEEM "     .        .               .        .        .  22/ 

DICKENS  AND  LEIGH  HUNT  ......  230 

GAD'S  HILL  PLACE     .        .        .        .        .        .        .  233 

BIRDS  OF  A  FEATHER      .        .        ;        ,    ;    ;    :    <•        .  235 

DICKENS  AS  A  SMASHER    .        .        .  •      .        »•      .    '-k  .  236 

DICKENS  AND  THE  QUEEN      .        .        ....  237 

DICKENS'S  BENEVOLENCE 238 

MANNER  OF  LITERARY  COMPOSITION     .        .        .        .  240 

BLANCHARD  JERROLD  o\  DICKENS  .        .  :     .        .        .  241 

SIR  ARTHUR  HELPS  ON  DICKENS          .        .        .  •     .  258 

REMINISCENCES  OF  DICKENS       ...               .  266 

OBITUARY  POEMS 291 


jjF  we  could  analyze  carefully  the  various  elements 
contained  in  a  good  biography,  and  decide  which 
interested  us  most  in  the  reading,  and  which  we 
remembered  longest  after  the  reading,  I  think  we  would 
discover  that  it  was  the  element  of  Anecdote.  The  chief 
facts  in  a  biography  —  the  general  drift  of  the  life  of  its 
subject  —  may  impress  themselves  upon  the  memory  for  a 
time,  but  that  which  remains  permanently,  and  which  re 
fuses  to  be  forgotten,  is  something  different  from  these,  — 
some  incident  or  incidents  in  the  life  in  question  —  a 
smart  saying,  a  humorous  jest,  a  rapier  thrust  of  wit,  —  it 
may  be  anything  that  is  salient.  We  remember  somewhat, 
perhaps,  of  the  life  of  Lamb,  for  example  :  how  he  went 
to  Christ's  Hospital  with  Coleridge  \  how  he  was  a  clerk 
in  the  India  House  ;  how  he  wrote  "  Elia,"  and  so  on  ;  what 
we  certainly  remember,  if  we  have  any  feeling,  is  his  going 
across  the  fields  with  his  sister  Mary  to  the  mad-house,  in 
which  it  was  necessary  that  she  should  be  confined,  and 
weeping  with  her,  as  he  went ;  what  we  can  never  forget, 
if  we  have  any  sense  of  humor,  are  his  humorous  sayings. 
Apart  from  their  works,  we  remember  different  authors 
for  different  reasons,  but  generally  for  what  their  biog 
raphers  would  consider  trifles  ;  but  which  are  not  trifles 


X  PREFACE. 

in  that  they  make  us  forget  the  biographers.  As  a  rule 
we  have  too  much  of  the  biographer  in  the  biography. 
What  we  want  is  the  man  whose  life  he  purports  to  nar 
rate,  not  as  he  sees  him,  but  as  he  was,  —  dressed  in  his 
habit  as  he  lived,  in  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  if 
need  be.  The  average  biographer  objects  to  this,  as  he 
generally  objects  to  telling  the  whole  truth  —  when  it  would 
injure  the  character  of  his  hero.  As  if  all  men,  the  greatest 
and  best,  were  not  compounded  of  the  same  poor  clay  as 
the  rest  of  us  !  The  wine  they  drink  is  made  of  grapes  ; 
their  headaches  are  as  veritable,  and  perhaps  a  trifle  more 
frequent,  than  ours. 

Most  biographers  start  with  preconceived  ideas  regarding 
the  characters  they  are  to  depict,  and  with  the  mistaken  no 
tion  that  these  characters,  when  depicted,  should  be  rounded 
and  harmonious.  They  also  mistake  the  nature  of  their 
office,  which  is  not  that  of  a  special  pleader,  either  for  good 
or  evil.  They  should  take  their  men,  as  they  were,  not  as 
they  would  have  them  :  should  state  what  they  did,  not 
what  they  might  have  done  : 

"  Nothing  extenuate, 
Nor  set  aught  down  in  malice  :  " 

and,  their  work  being  finished,  they  should  leave  it,  as 
Bacon  left  his  tarnished  fame  and  memory,  "  to  men's 
charitable  speeches,  to  foreign  nations,  and  the  next  ages." 
They  may  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  their  contemporaries, 
but  the  vision  of  Posterity  will  be  clear.  Posterity  will 
judge  their  work,  and,  likely  enough,  will  judge  it  by  ap 
parent  trifles,  —  trifles  which  are  omitted,  but  which  Pos 
terity  will  recover,  and  upon  which  it  will  set  an  inestima 
ble  value.  Such  priceless  trifles  may  take  the  form  of 
anecdotes,  which  frequently  reveal  what  the  biographers 
have  concealed,  and  which  are  surer  indications  of  charac- 


PREFACE.  xi 

ter  than  the  most  labored  biographies.  Fuller's  descrip 
tion  of  the  "  wit  combats  "  between  Shakespeare  and  Ben 
Jonson  is  the  liveliest  and  most  graphic  presentation  ex 
tant  of  the  two  men. 

The  two  great  men  to  whom  this  little  volume  is  de 
voted  will  pass,  we  may  be  sure,  under  the  sharp  scru 
tiny  of  Posterity.  They  divided  in  their  life-time  the  suf 
frages  of  all  who  speak  and  read  the  English  tongue  ;  but 
they  cannot  be  said  to  have  divided  it  equally,  for  one 
sprang  into»popularity,  —  a  popularity  which  he  retained  to 
the  day  of  his  death,  while  the  other  labored  long  before 
he  was  recognized  ;  his  reputation  was  wrung  from  the 
world.  They  had  their  adherents,  as  Jonson  and  Shakes 
peare  had  theirs,  and  battles  were  fought  about  them,  they 
remaining  the  while,  let  us  hope,  indifferent,  but  amused, 
spectators  of  the  fight.  The  biography  of  one  has  been 
written  ;  the  biography  of  the  other  has  not.  There  will 
be  no  biography  of  Thackeray,  if  his  wishes  and  the  wishes 
of  his  daughters  are  respected. 

This  being  the  case,  it  seems  to  me  that  a  collection  of 
the  best  papers  that  have  been  written  concerning  him,  — 
the  best,  I  mean,  in  an  anecdotal  sense,  —  will  be  accep 
table  to  his  admirers.  I  have  accordingly  made  the 
collection  which  follows,  and  which  contains,  I  believe, 
everything  that  is  worthy  of  preservation  in  the  shape  of 
personal  reminiscence  of  this  great  writer  and  great  and 
good  man.  It  contains  at  least  everything  that  has  come 
within  my  own  observation,  with  the  exception  of  a  lively 
sketch  in  Mr.  James  T.  Fields's  "  Yesterdays  with  Au 
thors,"  which  I  cannot  accept  as  a  faithful  portrait  of 
Thackeray,  although  it  may,  perhaps,  reflect  one  side  of 
his  nature  with  tolerable  accuracy.  The  writer  obtrudes 
himself  too  much,  and  his  tone,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  is 


Xll  PREFACE. 

one  of  condescension  towards  the  robust-minded  gentle 
man  who  honored  him  with  his  friendship. 

A  few  words  in  regard  to  the  Thackerayana  here,  may 
not  be  without  interest.  The  opening  paper — "  Haud 
Immemor.  —  Thackeray  in  America,"  was  written  by  Mr. 
William  B.  Reed,  of  this  city,  formerly  of  Philadelphia, 
and  at  one  time,  United  States  Minister  in  China.  Mr. 
Reed  printed  a  private  edition  of  this  charming  Mono 
graph,  which  was  written  in  May,  1864,  —  a  copy  of  which 
found  its  way  across  the  ocean,  and  was  reprinted  in 
6t  Blackwood  "  for  June,  1872.  It  is  reprinted  here  by  his 
permission.  The  brother  of  Mr.  Reed  to  whom  reference 
is  made  on  page  7,  Mr.  Henry  Reed,  was  one  of  the  most 
thoughtful  scholars  of  English  Literature  that  America  has 
yet  produced.  Born  in  Philadelphia  in  1808  he  entered 
the  Sophomore  Class  at  the  University  of  Pennsylvania 
in  1822,  and  was  graduated  as  Bachelor  of  Arts  in  1825. 
He  began  the  study  of  law,  and  four  years  later  was  admit 
ted  to  the  bar.  In  1831  he  relinquished  his  practice  and 
was  elected  Assistant  Professor  of  English  Literature  in 
the  University.  In  1835,  n^s  twenty-seventh  year,  he  was 
elected  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English  Literature.  In 
1854  he  visited  England,  where  he  was  warmly  received  by 
a  host  of  friends,  beginning  with  Wordsworth,  with  whom 
he  had  long  corresponded,  and  whose  reputation  he  had 
enhanced  in  America,  and  ending  with  Thackeray,  —  a 
bead-roll  of  illustrious  names,  including  the  Southeys, 
Coleridges,  and  Arnolds,  Lord  Mahon,  Aubrey  cle  Vere, 
and  Mr.  —  now  Sir,  —  Henry  Taylor.  It  was  while  re 
turning  from  this  visit,  on  the  27th  of  September,  1854, 
almost  in  sight  of  his  native  land,  that  the  Arctic,  the  ship 
upon  which  he  had  taken  passage,  sank,  with  nearly  every 
soul  on  board.  His  literary  remains  were  edited  by  Mr. 


PREFACE.  xiii 

William  B.  Reed.  They  are  "  Lectures  on  English  Lit 
erature,  from  Chaucer  to  Tennyson"  (Phila.  1855);  and 
"  Lectures  on  the  British  Poets  "  (Phila.  1857).  The  loss 
of  Mr.  Henry  Reed  was  a  loss  to  American  scholarship. 

To  continue  with  our  Thackerayana  :  —  "Thackeray's 
Literary  Career  "  is  reprinted  by  permission  of  Messrs.  J. 
R.  Osgood  &  Co.  from  the  second  series  of  ie  Spare  Hours," 
by  Dr.  John  Brown,  of  Edinburgh,  who  remarks  in  a  note 
that  the  larger  and  better  part  of  this  paper  is  by  his  young 
and  accomplished  friend,  Henry  H.  Lancaster,  Advocate. 
"  Some  Recollections  of  Thackeray,"  "A  Friend  of  my 
Childhood,"  and  "  A  Child's  Glimpse  of  Thackeray,"  are 
reprinted,  by  permission,  from  the  pages  of  "  Lippincott's 
Magazine."  "  Hodder's  Recollections  of  Thackeray  "  are 
taken  from  a  volume  of  u  Memories,"  the  exact  title  of 
which  escapes  me.  The  eight  short  papers  that  follow,  — 
anecdotes,  let  us  say,  —  are  taken,  with  one  exception, 
from  "  Thackeray,  the  Humorist,  and  the  Man  of  Letters," 
by  Theodore  Taylor,  Membre  de  la  Sotiete  des  Gens  de  Let- 
tres  (London,  1864),  a  collection  of  Thackerayana,  made 
shortly  after  Thackeray's  death.  The  exception,  "  Per 
sonal  Appearance  of  Thackeray,"  is  extracted  from  Mr. 
Blanchard  Jerrold's  "  Best  of  all  Good  Company."  Mr. 
Shirley  Brooks's  paper  appeared  in  the  "  London  Illus 
trated  News  ; "  Mr.  James  Hannay's  in  the  "  Edinburgh 
Courant,"  of  which  he  was  the  editor  ;  and  Mr.  Dickens's 
"  In  Memoriam  "  in  the  "  Cornhill  Magazine."  The 
"  Obituary  Poems  "  are  from  several  sources.  The  first 
appeared  in  "  Punch  ;  "  the  second  in  "  Fun  ; "  and  the 
third,  which  was  written  by  Lord  Houghton,  in  the  "  Corn- 
hill."  The  fourth  was  written  by  Dr.  Thomas  W.  Parsons, 
of  Boston  ;  the  last  was  written  by  myself. 

A    number    of  Thackeray    anecdotes    have    fallen    in 


Xiv  PREFACE. 

my  way  while  this  volume  has  been  passing  through  the 
press.  Here  is  one  which  was  related  by  the  late  Charles 
Sumner  :  "  When  Thackeray  was  in  this  city  (Washington), 
we  visited,  among  the  earlier  places,  the  capitol  rotunda. 
Thackeray  was  an  artist  by  birthright,  and  his  judgment 
was  beyond  chance  or  question.  He  took  a  quiet  turn 
around  the  rotunda,  and  in  a  few  words  gave  each  picture 
its  perfectly  correct  rank  and  art  valuation.  '  Trumbull  is 
your  painter  ; '  he  said,  '  never  neglect  Trumbull.'  Other 
places  of  interest  were  then  seen,  after  which  we  started 
homeward.  He  had  not  yet  been  at  my  house,  and  my 
chief  anxiety  was  to  coach  him  safely  past  that  Jackson 
statue.  The  conversation  hung  persistently  upon  art  mat 
ters,  which  made  it  certain  that  I  was  to  have  trouble 
when  we  should  come  in  view  of  that  particular  excrescence. 
We  turned  the  dreaded  corner  at  last,  when,  to  my  aston 
ishment,  Mr.  Thackeray  held  straight  past  the  hideous 
figure,  moving  his  head  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  and 
chatting  as  airily  as  though  we  were  strolling  through  an 
English  park.  Now  I  know  that  the  instant  we  came  in 
sight  of  poor  Jackson's  caricature  he  saw  it,  realized  its 
accumulated  terrors  at  a  glance,  and  in  the  charity  of  his 
great  heart  took  all  pains  to  avoid  having  a  word  said 
about  it.  Ah,  but  he  was  a  man  of  rare  consideration." 

Here  is  a  cluster  of  little  anecdotes :  "  Thackeray  was 
not  a  humorist,  in  the  sense  that  Dickens  was,  nor  a  wit, 
in  the  sense  that  Jerrold  was,  but  he  now  and  then  said  a 
good  thing  in  a  quiet  way.  He  was  pestered  on  one  occa 
sion,  while  in  this  country,  by  a  young  gentleman  of  an  in 
quiring  turn  of  mind,  as  to  what  was  thought  of  this  person 
and  that  person  in  England.  '  Mr.  Thackeray,'  he  asked, 
'  what  do  they  think  of  Tupper  ? '  i  They  don't  think  of 
Tupper,'  was  the  reply.  Another  man  of  letters  was  men- 


PREFACE.  XV 

tioned,  and  it  transpired  that  he  was  addicted  to  beer 
drinking.  l  Yes/  said  Thackeray,  i  take  him  for  half  and 
half  he  was  a  man.'  His  connection  with  '  Fraser's  Maga 
zine  '  was  the  subject  of  conversation,  and  the  right  of  an 
editor  to  change  the  '  copy  '  of  his  contributors  was  dis 
cussed.  Thackeray  maintained  that  no  such  right  existed, 
except  as  regarded  errors  of  grammar,  and  declared  that 
the  only  person  who  could  make  alterations  for  the  better 
was  the  author  himself ;  as  a  rule,  editorial  changes  were 
blunders.  '  I  told  an  editor  so  once  and  he  did  not  like 
it.  "  I  have  no  objection  to  your  putting  your  hoofs  on 
my  paragraphs,"  I  remarked,  "  but  I  decidedly  object  to 
your  sticking  your  ears  through  them."  '  l  He  never  for 
gave  you,  of  course.'  *  I  never  thought  to  ask.'  Thack 
eray  and  Jerrold  used  to  sit  near  each  other  at  the  '  Punch' 
dinners,  and  Jerrold  was  inclined  to  wrangle,  if  everthing 
was  not  to  his  liking  ;  but  Thackeray  would  keep  the 
peace.  '  There 's  no  use  in  our  quarreling,'  he  said,  l  for 
we  must  meet  again  next  week/  " 

The  last  poem  that  we  shall  probably  have  from  the  pen 
of  Thackeray  was  lately  found  among  his  papers.  It  sees 
the  light  in  the  June  number  of  the  "  Cornhill." 

KING  FRITZ. 

King  Fritz  at  his  palace  of  Berlin 

I  saw  at  a  royal  carouse, 
In  a  periwig  powdered  and  curling 

He  sat  with  his  hat  on  his  brows. 
The  handsome  young  princes  were  present, 

Uncovered  they  stood  in  the  hall  ; 
And  oh  !  it  was  wholesome  and  pleasant 

To  see  how  he  treated  them  all ! 

Reclined  on  the  softest  of  cushions 
His  Majesty  sits  to  his  meats, 


XVI  PREFACE. 

The  princes,  like  loyal  young  Prussians. 

Have  never  a  back  to  their  seats. 
Off  salmon  and  venison  and  pheasants 

He  dines  like  a  monarch  august : 
His  sons,  if  they  eat  in  his  presence, 

Put  up  with  a  bone  or  a  crust. 

He  quaffs  his  bold  bumpers  of  Rhenish, 

It  can't  be  too  good  or  too  dear, 
His  princes  are  made  to  replenish 

Their  cups  with  the  smallest  of  beer. 
If  ever,  by  words  or  grimaces, 

Their  highnesses  dare  to  complain, 
The  King  flings  a  dish  in  their  faces, 

Or  batters  their  bones  with  his  cane. 

'Tis  thus  that  the  chief  of  our  nation 

.The  minds  of  his  children  improves, 
And  teaches  polite  education 

By  boxing  the  ears  that  he  loves. 
I  warrant  they  vex  him  but  seldom, 

And  so  if  we  dealt  with  our  sons, 
If  we  up  with  our  cudgels  and  felled  'em, 

We  'd  teach  'em  good  manners  at  once. 

Thackeray  was  sensitive,  satirist  though  he  was,  and 
cannot  be  acquitted  of  techyness,  in  regard  to  what  was 
written  concerning  himself,  and  his  private  affairs.  When 
it  came  to  large  things,  —  to  his  work  and  his  life,  — 
he  was  supremely  indifferent.  He  left  his  Work  to  the 
world,  as  Shakespeare  did  :  his  Life  was  of  no  importance. 
He  left  no  record  of  it,  and  he  would  not  have  it  related. 
It  was  otherwise  with  Dickens,  as  we  cannot  but  feel  after 
reading  Mr.  Forster's  Life  of  him.  He  was  from  the  be 
ginning  conscious  that  he  was  a  man  of  genius,  and  con 
scious  that  the  world  would  one  day  want  to  know  all 


PREFACE.  XVli 

about  him.  He  never  forgot  himself  in  his  work,  though 
he  loved  his  work  because  it  was  a  part  of  himself.  There 
was  an  intellectual  selfishness  in  him  from  which  the 
larger  and  stronger  nature  of  Thackeray  was  free.  It  is 
not  my  intention,  however,  to  draw  comparisons  between 
the  two  men  ;  and,  if  it  were,  this  is  not  the  place  to  do  it. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  Life  of  Thackeray  has  not 
been  written.  It  is  also  to  be  regretted  that  the  Life  of 
Dickens  has  been  written,  —  at  least  by  Mr.  Forster.  Mr. 
Forster  has  long  been  credited  with  qualities  which  go  to  the 
making  of  a  good  biographer.  His  Life  of  Goldsmith  was 
a  good  one,  of  its  kind.  His  Life  of  Landor,  whatever 
its  kind,  was  not  good.  It  was  not  so  much  a  Life  of  Lan 
dor,  as  a  series  of  long  and  rather  dull  criticisms  upon  his 
writings  ;  altogether  it  was  a  tedious  book.  His  Life 
of  Dickens  is  not  tedious  —  it  could  not  well  be  that  — 
but  it  is  constructed,  I  venture  to  think,  upon  an  erroneous 
plan,  and  it  is  narrow,  in  that  it  presents  Dickens  only  as 
he  was  seen  by  Mr.  Forster.  A  voluminous  letter-writer 
all  his  life,  Dickens  must  have  written  letters  to  other  per 
sons  than  Mr.  Forster,  —  letters  that  are  as  worthy  of 
preservation  as  those  that  he  has  preserved,  and  are  as 
worthy  of  a  place  in  his  Memoir  as  those  that  were  written 
to. him.  He  had,  he  could  have,  no  exclusive  right  to 
knowledge  of  Dickens,  despite  his  life-long  intimacy  with 
him  and  his  friendship  for  him.  Dickens  was  known  to 
many  besides  Mr.  Forster,  and  known  differently  to  them 
than  to  .him.  He  does  not  appear  to  think  so,  and  the 
result  is  his  narrow  and  unsatisfactory  Life  of  Dickens. 
It  is  an  interesting,  an  instructive,  and  a  painful  book. 

It  has  been  completed  so  recently,  and  has  been  so 
widely  read,  that  any  extracts  from  it  would  be  out  of 
place  here.  I  have  indicated  what  seems  to  me  some  of 


xviii  PREFACE. 

its  defects :  I  have  not  named  one  which  is  prominent  — 
the  absence  of  anecdotes.  Mr.  Forster's  ideal  of  Biography 
is  graver  than  suits  most  readers.  He  does  not  unbend, 
nor  let  his  hero  unbend  enough.  The  gossip  concerning 
Dickens  which  was  called  forth  by  his  death,  —  the  recol 
lections  of  those  who  were  acquainted  with  him  at  the  be 
ginning  of  his  literary  career,  — these  are  naught  to  Mr. 
Foster.  They  possess  —  they  could  not  but  possess  —  inter 
est,  springing  as  they  did  spontaneously  from  the  memo 
ries  of  their  writers,  to  whom  the  sudden  taking  off  Dick 
ens  was  like  the  loss  of  a  personal  friend.  They  possess, 
at  any  rate,  a  freshness  which  is  not  imparted  by  Mr. 
Forster  to  any  of  the  facts,  or  incidents,  to  which  they 
refer,  or  which  they  embody. 

The  greater  portion  of  the  anecdotes  about  Dickens  in 
this  volume  are  derived  from  "  Charles  Dickens,  the  Story 
of  his  Life."  It  was  published  in  London  not  long  after 
his  death,  and  is  the  work  of  Mr.  Theodore  Taylor,  whom 
I  have  already  mentioned,  and  who  was  a  diligent  col 
lector  of  Dickens  ana.  I  have  not  a  very  high  idea  of  the 
class  of  writers  to  which  he  belongs,  but  they  are  not  with 
out  their  uses,  as  Mr.  John  Timbs,  the  head  of  the  class, 
has  shown.  They  preserve  many  things  which  would  perish 
but  for  them  ;  occasionally  a  jewel  may  be  found  among 
their  paste.  Mr.  Blanchard  Jerrold's  paper  is  taken  from 
his  "  Best  of  all  Good  Company  ;"  the  paper  by  Sir  Arthur 
Helps  from  "  Macmillan's  Magazine,"  and  "  Reminiscences 
of  Dickens  "  from  the  ';  Englishwoman's  Magazine."  The 
first  of  the  obituary  poems,  "  Charles  Dickens,"  appeared 
in  "Punch."  "Dickens  at  Gad's  Hill"  was  written  by 
Mr.  Charles  Kent,  and  published,  I  believe,  in  the  <fc  Ath 
enaeum."  "  Dickens  in  Camp  "  was  written  by  Mr.  Bret 
Harte  ;  "  At  Gad's  Hill  "  was  written  by  myself. 


PREFACE.  xix 

The  anecdote  in  relation  to  "  Oliver  Twist,"  on  page 
211,  has  been  the  subject  of  a  controversy,  which  was  be 
gun  with  bitterness  by  Mr.  Foster,  and  continued  with 
pertinacity  by  Mr.  Cruikshank.  Mr.  Forster  reprints  it  in 
his  "  Life  of  Dickens  "  (vol  i.  page  155),  and  stigmatizes 
it  as  "a  wonderful  story  originally  promulgated  in  America 
with  a  minute  conscientiousness  and  particularity  of  de 
tail  that  might  have  raised  the  reputation  of  Sir  Benjamin 
Backbite  himself.  Whether  all  Sir  Benjamin's  laurels, 
however,  should  fall  to  the  original  teller  of  the  tale,  or 
whether  any  part  of  them  is  the  property  of  the  alleged 
authority  from  which  he  says  that  he  received  it,  is  un 
fortunately  not  quite  clear.  There  would  hardly  have 
been  a  doubt,  if  the  fable  had  been  confined  to  the  other 
side  of  the  Atlantic  ;  but  it  has  been  reproduced  and 
widely  circulated  on  this  side  also ;  and  the  distinguished 
artist  whom  it  calumniates  by  fathering  its  invention  upon 
him,  either  not  conscious  of  it  or  not  caring  to  defend 
himself,  has  been  left  undefended  from  the  slander."  That 
the  distinguished  artist  did  care  to  defend  himself,  and 
could  do  so,  Mr.  Forster  discovered  when  he  read  the 
following  letter  in  the  column,  of  the  u  London  Times." 

"  To  the  Editor  of  '  The  Times.' 

"SiR,  —  As  my  name  is  mentioned  in  the  second  notice  of 
Mr.  John  Forster's  '  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,'  in  your  paper 
of  the  26th  inst,  in  connection  with  a  statement  made  by  an 
American  gentleman  (Dr.  Sheldon  Mackenzie)  respecting  the 
origin  of  '  Oliver  Twist,'  I  shall  be  obliged  if  you  will  allow 
me  to  give  some  explanation  upon  this  subject.  For  some 
time  past  I  have  been  preparing  a  work  for  publication,  in 
which  I  intend  to  give  an  account  of  the  origin  of  *  Oliver 
Twist,'  and  I  now  not  only  deeply  regret  the  sudden  and  un 
expected  decease  of  Mr.  Charles  Dickens,  but  regret  also  that 


XX  PREFACE. 

my  proposed  work  was  not  published  during  his  life-time.  I 
should  not  now  have  brought  this  matter  forward,  but  as  Dr. 
Mackenzie  states  that  he  got  the  information  from  me,  and  as 
Mr.  Forster  declares  his  statement  to  be  a  falsehood,  to  which, 
in  fact,  he  could  apply  a  word  of  three  letters,  I  feel  called 
upon,  not  only  to  defend  the  doctor,  but  myself  also  from  such 
a  gross  imputation.  Dr.  Mackenzie  has  confused  some  cir 
cumstances  with  respect  to  Mr.  Dickens  looking  over  some 
drawings  and  sketches  in  my  studio,  but  there  is  no  doubt 
whatever  that  I  did  tell  this  gentleman  that  I  was  the  origi 
nator  of  the  story  of  '  Oliver  Twist,'  as  I  have  told  very  many 
others  who  may  have  spoken  to  me  on  the  subject,  and  which 
facts  I  now  beg  permission  to  repeat  in  the  columns  of  '  The 
Times '  for  the  information  of  Mr.  Forster  and  the  public 
generally. 

"  When  '  Bentley's  Miscellany  '  was  first  started,  it  was  ar 
ranged  that  Mr.  Charles  Dickens  should  write  a  serial  in  it. 
and  which  was  to  be  illustrated  by  me  ;  and  in  a  conversation 
with  him  as  to  what  the  subject  should  be  for  the  first  serial,  I 
suggested  to  Mr.  Dickens  that  he  should  write  the  life  of  a 
London  boy,  and  strongly  advised  him  to  do  this,  assuring  him 
that  I  would  furnish  him  with  the  subject  and  supply  him  with 
all  the  characters,  which  my  large  experience  of  London  life 
would  enable  me  to  do.  My  idea  was  to  raise  a  boy  from  a 
most  humble  position  up  to  a  high  and  respectable  one — in 
fact,  to  illustrate  one  of  those  cases  of  common  occurrence, 
where  men  of  humble  origin  by  natural  ability,  industry,  hon 
est  and  honorable  conduct,  raise  themselves  to  first-class  posi 
tions  in  society.  And  as  I  wished  particularly  to  bring  the 
habits  and  manners  of  the  thieves  of  London  before  the  pub 
lic  (and  this  for  a  most  important  purpose,  which  I  shall  ex 
plain  one  of  these  days),  I  suggested  that  the  poor  boy  should 
fall  among  thieves,  but  that  his  honesty  and  natural  good  dis 
position  should  enable  him  to  pass  through  this  ordeal  without 
contamination,  and  after  I  had  fully  described  the  full-grown 
thieves  (the  l  Bill  Sykes ')  and  their  female  companions,  also 
the  young  thieves  (the  '  Artful  Dodgers  ')  and  the  receivers  of 


PREFACE.  xxi 

\ 

stolen  goods,  Mr.  Dickens  agreed  to  act  upon  my  suggestion, 
and  the  work  was  commenced,  but  we  differed  as  to  what  sort 
of  boy  the  hero  should  be.  Mr.  Dickens  wanted  rather  a 
queer  kind  of  chap,  and  although  this  was  contrary  to  my 
original  idea,  I  complied  with  his  request,  feeling  that  it  would 
not  be  right  to  dictate  too  much  to  the  writer  of  the  story,  and 
then  appeared  '  Oliver  asking  for  more  ; '  but  it  so  happened, 
just  about  this  time,  that  an  inquiry  was  being  made  in  the 
parish  of  St.  James,  Westminster,  as  to  the  cause  of  the 
death  of  some  of  the  work-house  children  who  had  been 
'  farmed  out,'  and  in  which  inquiry  my  late  friend  Joseph  Petti- 
grew  (surgeon  to  the  Dukes  of  Kent  and  Sussex)  came  for 
ward  on  the  part  of  the  poor  children,  and  by  his  interference 
was  mainly  the  cause  of  saving  the  lives  of  many  of  these 
poor  little  creatures.  I  called  the  attention  of  Mr.  Dickens 
to  this  inquiry,  and  said  if  he  took  up  this  matter  his  doing  so 
might  help  to  save  many  a  poor  child  from  injury  and  death, 
and  I  earnestly  begged  of  him  to  let  me  make  Oliver  a  nice 
pretty  little  boy,  and  if  we  so  represented  him,  the  public  — 
and  particularly  the  ladies  —  would  be  sure  to  take  a  greater  in 
terest  in  him,  and  the  work  would  then  be  a  certain  success. 
Mr.  Dickens  agreed  to  that  request,  and  I  need  not  add  here 
that  my  prophecy  was  fulfilled  ;  and  if  any  one  will  take  the 
trouble  to  look  at  my  representations  of  '  Oliver  '  they  will  see 
that  the  appearance  of  the  boy  is  altered  after  the  two  first  il 
lustrations,  and  by  a  reference  to  the  records  of  St.  James's 
parish,  and  to  the  date  of  the  publication  of  the  '  Miscellany,' 
they  will  see  that  both  the  dates  tally,  and  therefore  support 
my  statement.  I  had  a  long  time  previously  to  this  directed  Mr. 
Dickens's  attention  to  '  Field  Lane,'  Holborn  Hill,  wherein  re 
sided  many  thieves  and  receivers  of  stolen  goods,  and  it  was 
suggested  that  one  of  these  receivers,  a  Jew,  should  be  intro 
duced  into  the  story  ;  and  upon  one  occasion  Mr.  Dickens  and 
Mr.  Harrison  Ainsworth  called  upon  me  at  my  house  in  Myd- 
dleton  Terrace,  Pentonville,  and  in  course  of  conversation  I 
then  and  there  described  and  performed  the  character  of  one 
of  these  Jew  receivers,  who  I  had  long  had  my  eye  upon  ;  and 


PREFACE. 

this  was  the  origin  of  '  Fagan.'  Some  time  after  this  Mr. 
Ainsworth  said  to  me  one  day,  '  I  was  so  much  struck  with 
your  description  of  that  Jew  to  Mr.  Dickens,  that  I  think  you 
and  I  could  do  something  together,'  which  notion  of  Mr.  Ains- 
worth's,  as  most  people  are  aware,  was  afterwards  carried  out 
in  various  works.  Long  before  '  Oliver  Twist '  was  ever 
thought  of,  I  had,  by  permission  of  the  city  authorities,  made 
a  sketch  of  one  of  the  condemned  cells  in  Newgate  prison  ; 
and  as  I  had  a  great  object  in  letting  the  public  see  what  sort 
of  places  these  cells  were,  and  how  they  were  furnished,  and 
also  to  show  a  wretched  condemned  criminal  therein,  I 
thought  it  desirable  to  introduce  such  a  subject  into  this 
work ;  but  I  had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  get  Mr.  Dickens  to 
allow  me  to  carry  out  my  wishes  in  this  respect,  but  I  said  I 
must  have  either  what  is  called  a  Christian,  or  what  is  called  a 
Jew  in  a  condemned  cell,  and  therefore  it  must  be  '  Bill  Sykes  ' 
or  '  Fagan  ; '  at  length  he  allowed  me  to  exhibit  the  latter. 

"  Without  going  further  into  particulars,  I  think  it  will  be 
allowed  from  what  I  have  stated  that  I  am  the  originator  of 
1  Oliver  Twist,'  and  that  all  the  principal  characters  are  mine  ; 
but  I  was  much  disappointed  by  Mr.  Dickens  not  fully  carry 
ing  out  my  first  suggestion. 

"  I  must  here  mention  that  nearly  all  the  designs  were 
made  from  conversation  and  mutual  suggestion  upon  each  sub 
ject,  and  that  I  never  saw  any  manuscript  of  Mr.  Dickens 
until  the  work  was  nearly  finished,  and  the  letter  of  Mr.  Dick 
ens,  which  Mr.  Forster  mentions,  only  refers  to  the  last  etch 
ing —  done  in  great  haste  —  no  proper  time  being  allowed,  and 
of  a  subject  without  any  interest ;  in  fact,  there  was  not  anything 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  manuscript  that  would  suggest  an  illus 
tration  ;  but  to  oblige  Mr.  Dickens  I  did  my  best  to  produce 
another  etching,  working  hard  day  and  night,  but  when  done, 
what  is  it  ?  Why,  merely  a  lady  and  a  boy  standing  inside  of  a 
church  looking  at  a  stone  wall ! 

"  Mr.  Dickens  named  all  the  characters  in  this  work  him 
self,  but  before  he  had  commenced  writing  the  story  he  told 
me  that  he  had  heard  an  omnibus  conductor  mention  some  one 


PREFACE.  Xxiii 

as  Oliver  Twist,  which  name,  he  said,  he  would  give  the  boy. 
as  he  thought  it  would  answer  his  purpose.  I  wanted  the  boy 
to  have  a  very  different  name,  such  as  Frank  Foundling  or 
Frank  Steadfast  ;  but  I  think  the  word  Twist  proves  to  a  cer 
tain  extent  that  the  boy  he  was  going  to  employ  for  his  pur 
pose  was  a  very  different  sort  of  boy  from  the  one  introduced 
and  recommended  to  him  by,  Sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

GEORGE  CRUIKSHANK. 
"HAMPSTEAD  ROAD,  Dec.  29,  1871." 

Mr.  Forster  refers  to  this  letter  in  the  corrections  to  the 
first  volume  of  his  "  Life  of  Dickens/'  and  says  in  regard 
to  "  the  foregoing  fable  "  that  "  Mr.  Cruikshank  is  to  be 
congratulated  on  the  prudence  of  his  rigid  silence  respect 
ing  it  so  long  as  Mr.  Dickens  lived."  As  Mr.  Forster  had 
seen,  while  he  was  writing  his  first  volume,  the  "Life  of 
Dickens  "  by  Dr.  R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  in  which  it  is 
stated  that  Mr.  Cruikshank  laid  claim  to  "  Oliver  Twist'' 
as  far  back  as  1847,  twenty-three  years  before  the  death  of 
Dickens,  Mr.  Forster  is  to  be  congratulated  for  —  what  ? 

But  Mr.  Cruikshank  made  other  claims  than  the  one 
in  regard  to  "Oliver  Twist,"  for  in  a  published  letter  writ 
ten,  over  a  year  earlier  than  the  letter  to  the  "  Times," 
he  wrote,  "  I  was  the  first  artist  to  illustrate  any  of  Mr. 
Dickens's  writings,  and  the  earliest  of  them  was  the  first 
volume  of  4  Sketches  by  Boz  '  (January,  1836),  and  the 
next  was  the  second  volume  under  this  title,  the  greater 
part  of  which  was  written  from  my  hints  and  suggestions." 
He  continues,  in  the  same  letter,  "  I  am  preparing  to  pub 
lish  an  explanation  of  the  reason  why  I  did  not  illustrate 
the  whole  of  Mr.  Dickens's  writings,  and  this  explanation 
will  not  at  all  redound  to  his  credit/'  That  Mr.  Cruikshank 
believed  then,  and  believes  now,  that  Dickens  was  largely 
indebted  to  him,  is  evident  from  a  speech  delivered  by  him 
on  the  2oth  of  April  of  the  present  year.  The  following 


XXIV  PREFACE. 

paragraph  in  relation  to  it  appeared  in  the  "  London  Globe  " 
of  April  2ist:  "  Mr.  George  Cruikshank  delivered  an 
address  yesterday  on  intemperance,  at  Manchester.  In 
supporting  a  vote  of  thanks  to  the  veteran  artist  the  Mayor 
referred  to  Mr.  Cruikshank's  illustration  of  Charles  Dick- 
ens?s  works.  Mr.  Cruikshank,  in  responding,  said  the 
only  work  of  Dickens  which  he  had  illustrated  was  '  The 
Sketches  by  Boz.'  Then  came  the  question  why  he  had 
not  illustrated  the  others.  The  Mayor :  You  forget  '  Ol 
iver  Twist.'  —  Mr.  Cruikshank:  That  came  out  of  my 
own  brain.  I  wanted  Dickens  to  write  me  a  work,  but  he 
did  not  do  it  in  the  way  I  wanted.  I  assure  you  I  went 
and  made  a  sketch  of  the  condemned  cell  many  years  be 
fore  that  work  was  published.  I  wanted  a  scene  a  few 
hours  before  the  strangulation,  and  Dickens  said  he  did 
not  like  it,  and  I  said  he  must  have  a  Jew  or  a  Christian  in 
the  cell.  Dickens  said, i  Do  as  you  like,'  and  I  put  Fagan, 
the  Jew,  into  the  cell.  Dickens  behaved  in  an  extraordi 
nary  way  to  me,  and  I  believe  it  had  a  little  effect  on  his 
mind.  He  was  a  most  powerful  opponent  to  teetotalism, 
and  he  described  us  as  'old  hogs.'  ' 

That  something  has  had  a  little  effect  upon  the  mind  of 
Mr.  Cruikshank  is  evident  from  his  language,  which  must 
be  characterized  as  rather  intemperate  in  the  mouth  of  a 
veteran  teetotaler.  It  is  not  in  this  rote,  however,  nor  as 
the  originator  of  "  Oliver  Twist,"  that  he  will  be  known  to 
posterity,  but  as  an  artist  of  peculiar  and  great  power,  who 
in  the  latter  part  of  his  long  and  active  life  created  mate 
rials  for  a  chapter  which  has  yet  to  be  written  in  the 
"  Curiosities  of  Literature,"  and  which  should  be  chris 
tened  "  The  Delusions  of  an  Artist." 

R.  H.  S. 


IVEESITT) 


WILLIAM    MAKEP 


THACKERAY. 


HAUD  IMMEMOR.  —  THACKERAY  IN  AMERICA. 

j]R.  THACKERAY  (who  that  has  heard  him  with 
sweetness  of  voice  unequaled,  speak  of  Mr.  Joseph 
Addison,  and  Mr.  Congreve,  and  Mr.  Fielding,  and 
Mr.  Atterbury  ;  who  that  has  read  "Henry  Esmond," 
or  "  The  Virginians,"  —  will  find  fault  with  me  for  so  describ 
ing  him  ?)  came  to  Philadelphia  on  his  first  visit  to  America 
in  the  month  of  January,  1853.  ,My  impression  is  that  he 
brought  very  few  letters  of  personal  introduction,  and  was 
rather  careless  of  what  may  be  called  "  social  success," 
though  anxious  about  the  work  he  had  in  hand,  —  his  course 
of  lectures  on  the  English  Humorists,  —  and,  as  he  used  to 
say,  "  the  dollars  he  wished  to  make,  not  for  himself,  but  for 
his  little  girls  at  home."  With  or  without  letters,  he  soon 
made  friends,  on  the  hearts  of  whom  the  news  of  his  death 
has  struck  a  sharp  pang.  As  one  of  them,  I  venture  to  jot 
down  a  few  memories  of  him  who  is  gone. 

The  lectures  were  very  successful.  There  are  two  classes 
of  people  in  every  American  microcosm  —  those  who  run 
after  celebrities,  and  those,  resolute  not  to  be  pleased,  who 
run  as  it  were  against  them.  All  were  won  or  conquered  by 
his  simple  naturalness  ;  and,  as  I  have  said,  the  lectures  were 
a  great  success. 

My  personal  relations  to  him  happened  to  become  very  in- 


2?  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

timate.  He  seemed  to  take  a  fancy  to  me  and  mine,  and  I 
naturally  loved  him  dearly.  He  used  to  come  to  my  house, 
not  the  abode  of  wealth  or  luxury,  almost  every  day,  and  often 
more  than  once  a  day.  He  talked  with  my  little  children,  and 
told  them  odd  fairy  tales  ;  and  I  now  see  him  (this  was  on 
his  second  visit)  one  day  in  Walnut  Street  walking  slowly 
along  with  my  little  girl  by  the  hand  —  the  tall,  gray-haired, 
spectacled  man  with  an  effort  accommodating  himself  to  the 
toddling  child  by  his  side  ;  and  then  he  would  bring  her 
home  :  and  one  day  when  we  were  to  have  a  great  dinner 
at  the  club  given  to  him,  and  my  wife  was  ill,  and  my  house 
hold  disarranged,  and  the  bell  rang,  and  I  said  to  him,  "  I 
must  go  and  carve  the  boiled  mutton  for  the  children,  and 
take  for  granted  you  do  not  care  to  come  ;  "  and  he  got  up, 
and  with  a  cheery  voice,  said,  "  I  love  boiled  mutton,  and 
children  too,  and  I  will  dine  with  them,"  and  we  did  ;  and  he 
was  happy,  and  the  children  were  happy,  and  our  appetite 
for  the  club  dinner  was  damaged.  Such  was  Thackeray  in 
my  home. 

I  met  him  once  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  and  there  happened 
to  be  an  odd  collocation  at  the  table.  There  was  a  guest,  a 
man  of  brilliant  talent,  of  mature  age,  and  high  education, 
measured  at  least  by  our  American  standard,  who  was  marked 
by  two  peculiarities  —  his  remarkable  physical  resemblance  to 
Thackeray,  and  the  fact  that,  although  upwards  of  fifty  years 
of  age,  born  and  bred  in  Kentucky,  he  had  never  before 
crossed  the  Alleghanies,  and  never  until  that  very  day  seen  z 
ship,  or  any  square-rigged  vessel.  They  —  the  bright  back 
woodsman,  who  had  never  looked  upon  the  ocean,  and  the 
veteran  Londoner,  who  had  made  a  voyage  from  India  before 
the  days  of  steam,  and  had  seen  a  fat  man  in  white  clothes 
and  a  big  straw  hat  at  St.  Helena  called  "Buonaparte"  — 
were  a  charming  contrast.  The  year  1863  carried  both  to 
their  graves  —  one  in  Kensal  Green,  and  the  other  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ohio. 

It  was  a  bright  moonlight  night  on  which  we  (Thackeray 
and  I)  walked  home  from  that  dinner :  and  I  remember  well 


THACKERAY  IN  AMERICA.  3 

the  walk  and  the  place,  for  I  seem  to  localize  all  my  associa 
tions  with  him,  and  I  asked  him  what,  perhaps,  he  might 
have  thought  the  absurd  question,  "  What  do  you  honestly 
think  of  my  country  ?  or  rather,  what  has  most  struck  you  in 
America  ?  Tell  me  candidly,  for  I  shall  not  be  at  all  angry  or 
hurt  if  it  be  unfavorable,  or  much  elated  if  it  be  not."  And 
then  his  answer,  as  he  stopped  (we  were  walking  along  Penn 
Square),  and,  turning  round  to  me,  said  :  "  You  know  what  a 
virtue-proud  people  we  English  are.  We  think  we  have  got  it 
all  to  ourselves.  Now  that  which  most  impresses  me  here  is, 
that  I  find  homes  as  pure  as  ours,  firesides  like  ours,  domestic 
virtues  as  gentle  ;  the  English  language,  though  the  accent  be 
a  little  different,  with  its  home-like  melody  ;  and  the  Common 
Prayer  Book  in  your  families.  I  am  more  struck  by  pleasant 
resemblances  than  by  anything  else."  And  so  I  sincerely 
believe  he  was. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  dining  out  while  "  the  great  sa 
tirist,"  as  we  used  to  address  him,  was  here  ;  but  although 
always  genial,  I  do  not  think,  according  to  my  recollection,  he 
was  a  brilliant  conversationist.  Those  who  expected  much 
were  often  disappointed.  It  was  in  close  private  intercourse 
he  was  delightful.  Once  —  it  was  in  New  York  —  he  gave  a 
dinner,  at  which  I  was  a  guest,  to  what  are  called  "  literary 
men,"  —  authors  and  lawyers,  and  actors  (two  very  accom 
plished  ones,  and  most  estimable  gentlemen  —  one  still  living), 
and  editors  and  magazine  men.  Then  he  made  what  seemed 
to  be  an  effort.  He  talked  for  the  table.  He  sang  some  odd 
post-prandial  songs  ;  one  in  a  strange  sort  of  a  "  recitative  " 
about  Doctor  Martin  Luther.  But,  as  I  have  said,  it  was  an 
effort,  and  I  liked  him  better  at  home  and  alone.  It  was  on 
this  occasion,  or  rather  on  our  return  journey  to  Philadelphia, 
that,  on  board  the  steamboat  (here  again  am  I  localizing),  he 
spoke  to  me  of  domestic  sorrows  and  anxieties  too  sacred  to 
be  recorded  here.1  And  yet  it  was  this  man  whom  vulgar- 

1  He  referred  to  a  friend  whose  wife  had  been  deranged  for  many  years,  hopelessly 
so ;  and  never  shall  I  forget  the  look,  the  manner,  the  voice  with  which  he  said  to 
me  :  "  It  is  an  awful  thing  for  her  to  continue  so  to  live.  It  is  an  awful  thing  for  her 


4  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

minded  people  called  heartless  !  As  he  thus  talked  to  me,  I 
thought  of  lines  of  tenderness,  often  quoted,  which  no  one  but 
he  could  have  written  :  — 

"  Ah  me  !  how  quick  the  days  are  flitting  I 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that 's  gone, 
When  here  I  'd  sit,  as  now  I'm  sitting, 

In  this  same  place,  but  not  alone- 
A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 

A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up, 
And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me,  — • 

There 's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup." 

It  is  no  part  of  this  little  Memorial  to  refer  to  what  may  be 
called  his  public  relations,  and  his  success  as  a  lecturer.  I 
merely  record  my  recollection  of  the  peculiar  voice  and  ca 
dence  ;  the  exquisite  manner  of  reading  poetry  ;  the  elocution, 
matchless  in  its  simplicity;  his  tranquil  attitude  —  the  only 
movement  of  his  hands  being  when  he  wiped  his  glasses  as 
he  began  and  turned  over  the  leaves  of  his  manuscript ;  his 
gentle  intonations.  There  was  sweet  music  in  his  way  of  re 
peating  the  most  hackneyed  lines,  which  freshened  them 
anew.  I  seem  still  to  hear  him  say,  — 

' '  And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth." 

Or,  in  his  lecture  on  Pope,  — 

'*  Lo  !  thy  dread  empire,  chaos,  is  restored  ; 
Light  dies  before  thy  uncreating  word. 
Thy  hand,  great  Anarch!   lets  the  curtain  fall, 
And  universal  darkness  buries  all  !" 

But  to  resume  my  personal  recollections.  He  was  too  sincere 
a  man  to  talk  for  effect,  or  to  pay  compliments  ;  and  on  his 
first  visit  to  America,  he  seemed  so  happy,  and  so  much 
pleased  with  all  he  met,  that  I  fancied  he  might  be  tempted  to 
come,  and  for  a  time  live  amongst  us.  The  British  Consulate 
in  Philadelphia  became  vacant,  the  incumbent,  Mr.  William 
Peter,  dying  suddenly ;  and  it  seems  from  the  following  note, 

so  to  die.  But  has  it  never  occurred  to  you,  how  awful  the  recovery  of  lost  reason 
must  be,  without  the  consciousness  of  the  loss  of  time?  She  finds  the  lover  of  her 
youth  a  gray-haired  old  man,  and  her  infants  young  men  and  women.  Is  it  not 
sad  to  think  of  this?" 


THACKERAY  IN  AMERICA. 


s 


written  at  Washington,  that  I  urged  him  to  take  the  place  ii 
he  could  get  it.  I  give  the  note  exactly  as  it  was  written, 
venturing  even  to  retain  the  names  of  those  whom  he  kindly 
remembered  ;  and  Philadelphians  of  the  old  school  will  smile 
at  the  misspelling  of  the  name  of  the  founder  of  the  Wistar 
parties  of  our  ancient  days. 

"MR.  ANDERSON'S  Music  STORE,  PENNS  AVENUE  (1853), 
Friday. 

"  MY  DEAR  REED,  —  (I  withdraw  the  Mr.  as  wasteful  and 
ridiculous  excess,  and  gilding  of  refined  gold),  and  thank  you 
for  the  famous  autograph  and  the  kind  letter  inclosing  it,  and 
the  good  wishes  you  form  for  me.  There  are  half  a  dozen 
houses  I  already  know  in  Philadelphia  where  I  could  find  very 
pleasant  friends  and  company  ;  and  that  good  old  library  would 
give  me  plenty  of  acquaintances  more.  But,  home  among  my 
parents  there,  and  some  few  friends  I  have  made  in  the  last 
twenty-five  years,  and  a  tolerably  fair  prospect  of  an  honest 
livelihood  on  the  familiar  London  flagstones,  and  the  library  at 
the  Athenasum,  and  the  ride  in  the  Park,  and  the  pleasant  so 
ciety  afterwards  ;  and  a  trip  to  Paris  now  and  again,  and  to 
Switzerland  and  Italy  in  the  summer  —  these  are  little  tempta 
tions  which  make  me  not  discontented  with  my  lot,  about  which 
I  grumble  only  for  pastime,  and  because  it  is  an  Englishman's 
privilege.  Own  now  that  all  these  recreations  here  enumerated 
have  a  pleasant  sound.  I  hope  I  shall  live  to  enjoy  them  yet 
a  little  while  before  I  go  to  '  nox  et  domus  exilis  PlutoniaJ 
whither  poor,  kind  old  Peter  has  vanished.  So  that  Saturday 
I  was  to  have  dined  with  him,  and  Mrs.  Peter  wrote,  saying  he 
was  ill  with  influenza:  he  was  in  bed  with  his  last  illness, 
and  there  were  to  be  no  more  Whister  parties  for  him.  Will 
Whister  himself,  hospitable,  pigtailed  shade,  welcome  him  to 
Hades  ?  And  will  they  sit  down  — no,  stand  up  — to  a  ghostly 
supper,  devouring  the  KpOinovs  tj/uxas  of  oysters  and  all  sorts  of 
birds  ?  T  never  feel  pity  for  a  man  dying,  only  for  survivors, 
if  there  be  such  passionately  deploring  him.  You  see  the 
pleasures  the  undersigned  proposes  to  himself  here  in  future 


t  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

years  —  a  sight  of  the  Alps,  a  holiday  on  the  Rhine,  a  ride  in 
the  Park,  a  colloquy  with  pleasant  friends  of  an  evening.  If 
it  is  death  to  part  with  these  delights  (and  pleasures  they  are 
and  no  mistake)  sure  the  mind  can  conceive  others  afterwards  ; 
and  I  know  one  small  philosopher  who  is  quite  ready  to  give 
up  these  pleasures  ;  quite  content  (after  a  pang  or  two  of  sep 
aration  from  dear  friends  here)  to  put  his  hand  into  that  of  the 
summoning  angel,  and  say,  '  Lead  on,  O  messenger  of  God  our 
Father  to  the  next  place  whither  the  divine  goodness  calls 
us  ! '  We  must  be  blindfolded  before  we  can  pass,  I  know  ; 
but  I  have  no  fear  about  what  is  to  come,  any  more  than  my 
children  need  fear  that  the  love  of  their  father  should  fail 
them.  I  thought  myself  a  dead  man  once,  and  protest  the 
notion  gave  me  no  disquiet  about  myself  —  at  least,  the  phi 
losophy  is  more  comfortable  than  that  which  is  tinctured  with 
brimstone. 

"  The  Baltimoreans  flock  to  the  stale  old  lectures  as  numer 
ously  as  you  of  Philadelphia.  Here  the  audiences  are  more 
polite  than  numerous,  but  the  people  who  do  come  are  very 
well  pleased  with  their  entertainment.  I  have  had  many  din 
ners.  Mr.  Everett,  Mr.  Fish  —  our  minister,  ever  so  often  — 
the  most  hospital  of  envoys.  I  have  seen  no  one  at  all  in  Bal 
timore,  for  it  is  impossible  to  do  the  two  towns  together  ;  and 
from  this  I  go  to  Richmond  and  Charlestown,  not  to  New  Or 
leans,  which  is  too  far  ;  and  I  hope  you  will  make  out  your 
visit  to  Washington,  and  that  we  shall  make  out  a  meeting 
more  satisfactory  than  that  dinner  at  New  York,  which  did  not 
come  off.  The  combination  failed  whicli  \  wanted  to  bring 
about.  Have  you  heard  Miss  Furness  of  Philadelphia  sing  ? 
She  is  the  best  ballad-singer  I  ever  heard.  And  will  you 
please  remember  me  to  Mrs.  Reed  and  your  brother,  and 
Wharton,  and  Lewis  and  his  pretty  young  daughter  ;  and  be 
lieve  me  ever  faithfully  yours,  dear  Reed, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

The  "  famous  autograph  "  was,  if  my  memory  does  not  mis 
lead  me,  a  letter  of  Washington,  for  which  he  had  expressed  a 


THACKERAY  IN  AMERICA.  J 

wish,  and  which  I  gladly  gave  him ;  and  the  plan  of  coming  to 
America,  as  will  be  seen,  though  at  first  rejected,  seems  to 
have  taken  root  in  his  mind. 

Thackeray  left  us  in  the  winter  of  1853,  and  in  the  summer 
of  the  year  was  on  the  Continent  with  his  daughters.  In  the 
last  chapter  of  "  The  Newcomes,"  published  in  1855,  he  says  : 
"  Two  years  ago,  walking  with  my  children  in  some  pleasant 
fields  near  to  Berne,  in  Switzerland,  I  strayed  from  them  into 
a  little  wood  ;  and  coming  out  of  it  presently  told  them  how 
the  story  had  been  revealed  to  me  somehow,  which  for  three- 
and-twenty  months  the  reader  has  been  pleased  to  follow." 
It  was  on  this  Swiss  tour  that  he  wrote  me  the  following  char 
acteristic  letter,  filled  with  kindly  recollections  of  convivial 
hours  in  Philadelphia,  of  headaches  which  he  had  contributed 
to  administer,  and  of  friends  whose  society  he  cherished.  On 
the  back  of  this  note  is  a  pen-and-ink  caricature  of  which  he 
was  not  conscious  when  he  began  to  write.  It  is  what  he  al 
ludes  to  as  "  the  rubbishing  picture  which  I  did  n't  see."  The 
sketch  is  very  spirited,  and,  as  a  friend  to  whom  I  have  shown 
it  reminds  me,  evidently  is  the  original  of  one  of  the  illustra 
tions  of  his  grotesque  fairy  tale  of  "  The  Rose  and  the  Ring," 
written,  so  he  told  a  member  of  my  family  years  afterwards, 
while  he  was  watching  and  nursing  his  children,  who  were  ill 
during  this  vacation  ramble. 

NEUFCHATEL,  SWITZERLAND,  July  21,  1853. 

"  MY  DEAR  REED,  —  Though  I  am  rather  slow  in  paying 
the  tailor,  I  always  pay  him :  and  as  with  tailors,  so  with  men  ; 
I  pay  my  debts  to  my  friends,  only  at  rather  a  long  day. 
Thank  you  for  writing  to  me  so  kindly,  you  who  have  so  much 
to  do.  I  have  only  begun  to  work  ten  days  since,  and  now  in 
consequence  have  a  little  leisure.  Before,  since  my  return 
from  the  West,  it  was  flying  from  London  to  Paris,  and  vice 
versa,  dinners  right  and  left,  parties  every  night.  If  I  had 
been  in  Philadelphia,  I  could  scarcely  have  been  more  feasted. 
Oh,  you  unhappy  Reed  !  I  see  you  (after  that  little  supper 
with  McMichael)  on  Sunday,  at  your  own  table,  when  we  had 


8  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY, 

that  good  Sherry-Madeira,  turning  aside  from  the  wine-cup 
with  your  pale  face  !  That-  cup  has  gone  down  this  well  so 
often  (meaning  my  own  private  cavity),  that  I  wonder  the  cup 
is  n't  broken,  and  the  well  as  well  as  it  is. 

"  Three  weeks  of  London  were  more  than  enough  for  me, 
and  I  feel  as  if  I  had  had  enough  of  it  and  pleasure.  Then  I 
remained  a  month  with  my  parents  ;  then  I  brought  my  girls 
on  a  little  pleasuring  tour,  and  it  has  really  been  a  pleasuring 
tour.  We  spent  ten  days  at  Baden,  when  I  set  intrepidly  to 
work  again  ;  and  have  been  five  days  in  Switzerland  now ; 
not  bent  on  going  up  mountains,  but  on  taking  things  easily. 
How  beautiful  it  is  !  How  pleasant  !  How  great  and  affable, 
too,  the  landscape  is  !  It 's  delightful  to  be  in  the  midst  of 
such  scenes  —  the  ideas  get  generous  reflections  from  them. 
I  don't  mean  to  say  my  thoughts  grow  mountainous  and  enor 
mous  like  the  Alpine  chain  yonder ;  but,  in  fine,  it  is  good  to 
be  in  the  presence  of  this  noble  nature.  It  is  keeping  good 
company  :  keeping  away  mean  thoughts.  I  see  in  the  papers 
now  and  again  accounts  of  fine  parties  in  London.  Bon 
Dieu  !  is  it  possible  any  one  ever  wanted  to  go  to  fine  Lon 
don  parties,  and  are  there  now  people  sweating  in  Mayfarr 
routs  ?  The  European  continent  swarms  with  your  people. 
They  are  not  all  as  polished  as  Chesterfield.  I  wish  some  of 
them  spoke  French  a  little  better.  I  saw  five  of  them  at  sup 
per  at  Basle  the  other  night  with  their  knives  down  their 
throats.  It  was  awful !  My  daughter  saw  it,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  say,  '  My  dear,  your  great-great-grandmother,  one 
of  the  finest  ladies  of  the  old  school  I  ever  saw,  always  ap 
plied  cold  steel  to  her  wittles.  It 's  no  crime  to  eat  with  a 
knife,'  which  is  all  very  well :  but  I  wish  five  of  'em  at  a  time 
would  n't. 

"  Will  you  please  beg  McMichael,  when  Mrs.  Glyn,  the 
English  tragic  actress,  comes  to  read  Shakespeare  in  your 
city,  to  call  on  her,  do  the  act  of  kindness  to  her,  and  help  her 
with  his  valuable  editorial  aid?  I  wish  we  were  to  have 
another  night  soon,  and  that  I  was  going  this  very  evening  to 
set  you  up  with  a  headache  to-morrow  morning.  By  Jove ! 


THACKERAY  IN  AMERICA.  9 

how  kind  you  all  were  to  me  !  How  I  like  people,  and  want 
to  see  'em  again  !  You  are  more  tender-hearted,  romantic, 
sentimental  than  we  are.  I  keep  on  telling  this  to  our  fine 
people  here,  and  have  so  belabored  your  [Here  the  paper  was 
turned  and  revealed  the  sketch.  At  the  top  is  written  :  '  Par 
don  this  rubbishing  picture  ;  but  I  did  n't  see  and  can't  afford 
to  write  page  3  over  again.']  country  with  praise  in  private 
that  I  sometimes  think  I  go  too  far.  I  keep  back  some  of 
the  truth,  but  the  great  point  to  try  and  ding  into  the  ears  of 
the  great  stupid  virtue-proud  English  public  is,  that  there  are 
folks  as  good  as  they  in  America.  That 's  where  Mrs.  Stowe's 
book  has  done  harm,  by  inflaming  us  with  an  idea  of  our  own 
superior  virtue  in  freeing  our  blacks,  whereas  you  keep 
yours.  Comparisons  are  always  odorous,  Mrs.  Malaprop  says. 
"  I  am  about  a  new  story,  but  don't  know  as  yet  if  it  will  be 
any  good.  It  seems  to  me  I  am  too  old  for  story-telling  ;  but 
I  want  money,  and  shall  get  20,000  dollars  for  this,  of  which 
(D.  V.)  I  '11  keep  fifteen.  I  wish  this  rubbish  (the  sketch) 
were  away ;  I  might  put  written  rubbish  in  its  stead.  Not 
that  I  have  anything  to  say,  but  that  I  always  remember  you 
and  yours,  and  honest  Mac,  and  Wharton,  and  Lewis,  and 
kind  fellows  who  have  been  kind  to  me.  and  I  hope  will  be 
kind  to  me  again.  Good-by,  my  dear  Reed,  and  believe  me 
ever  sincerely  yours,  W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

The  next  year,  1854,  was  a  year  of  sorrow  to  me  and  mine. 
But  for  the  sympathy  which,  in  that  overpowering  grief,  I  had 
from  my  friend,  I  should  not  allude  to  it.  My  only  surviving 
brother,  Mr.  Henry  Reed,  in  company  with  his  wife's  sister, 
visited  Europe,  saw,  and  were  kindly  treated  by,  Mr.  Thack 
eray  ;  and  on  their  return  voyage,  on  the  24th  September,  per 
ished  in  the  shipwreck  of  the  Arctic.  Thackeray  had  known 
my  brother  in  this  country,  and  duly  estimated  what  I  may  be 
pardoned  for  describing  as  his  gentle  virtues  and  refined  and 
scholar-like  tastes.  He  measured,  too,  the  anguish  which, 
even  at  this  lapse  of  time  —  now  nearly  ten  years  —  freshens 
when  I  think  of  it,  and  which  then  bowed  a  whole  family  to 


IO  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

the  earth.  It  was  in  reply  to  my  letter  announcing  that  all 
hope  of  rescue  or  escape  was  over,  and  that  "  a  vast  and  wan 
dering  grave  was  theirs,"  that  in  November  he  wrote  to  me 
the  following.  It  is  an  interesting  letter,  too,  in  this,  that  it 
mentions  what  may  not  be  known  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Atlantic — that  he  had  had  some  transient  diplomatic  visions. 

"ONSLOW  SQUARE  BROMPTON,  November  8. 

"  MY  DEAR  REED,  —  I  received  your  melancholy  letter  this 
morning.  It  gives  me  an  opportunity  of  writing  about  a  sub 
ject  on  which,  of  course,  I  felt  very  strongly  for  you  and  for 
your  poor  brother's  family.  I  have  kept  back  writing,  know 
ing  the  powerlessness  of  consolation,  and  having  I  don't  know 
what  vague  hopes  that  your  brother  and  Miss  Bronson  might 
have  been  spared.  That  ghastly  struggle  over,  who  would 
pity  any  man  that  departs  ?  It  is  the  survivors  one  commiser 
ates  of  such  a  good,  pious,  tender-hearted  man  as  he  seemed 
whom  God  Almighty  has  just  called  back  to  Himself.  He 
seemed  to  me  to  have  all  the  sweet  domestic  virtues  which 
make  the  pang  of  parting  only  the  more  cruel  to  those  who 
are  left  behind.  But  that  loss,  what  a  gain  to  him  !  A  just 
man  summoned  by  God,  — for  what  purpose  can  he  go  but  to 
meet  the  divine  love  and  goodness  ?  I  never  think  about  de 
ploring  such  ;  and  as  you  and  I  send  for  our  children,  mean 
ing  them  only  love  and  kindness,  how  much  more  Pater  Nos- 
ter  ?  So  we  say,  and  weep  the  beloved  ones  whom  we  lose  all 
the  same  with  the  natural  selfish  sorrow  ;  as  you,  I  dare  say,  will 
have  a  heavy  heart  when  your  daughter  marries  and  leaves 
you.  You  will  lose  her,  though  her  new  home  is  ever  so  happy. 
I  remember  quite  well  my  visit  to  your  brother  —  the  pictures 
in  his  room,  which  made  me  see  which  way  his  thoughts  lay ; 
his  sweet,  gentle,  melancholy,  pious  manner.  That  day  I  saw 
him  here  in  Dover  Street,  I  don't  know  whether  I  told  them, 
but  I  felt  at  the  time  that  to  hear  their  very  accents  affected 
me  somehow.  They  were  just  enough  American  to  be  na 
tional  ;  and  where  shall  I  ever  hear  voices  in  the  world  that 
have  spoken  more  kindly  to  me  ?  It  was  like  being  in  your 


TH ACKER  A  Y  IN  AMERICA.  1 1 

grave,  calm,  kind  old  Philadelphia  over  again  ;  and  behold  : 
now  they  are  to  be  heard  no  more.  I  only  saw  your  brother 
once  in  London.  When  he  first  called  I  was  abroad  ill,  and 
went  to  see  him  immediately  I  got  your  letter,  which  he 
brought  and  kept  back,  I  think.  We  talked  about  the  tour 
which  he  had  been  making,  and  about  churches  in  this  country 
—  which  I  knew  interested  him  —  and  Canterbury  especially, 
where  he  had  been  at  the  opening  of  a  missionary  college. 
He  was  going  to  Scotland,  I  think,  and  to  leave  London  in 
stantly,  for  he  and  Miss  B.  refused  hospitality,  etc. ;  and  we 
talked  about  the  memoir  of  Hester  Reed  which  I  had  found,  I 
did  n't  know  how,  on  my  study-table,  and  about  the  people 
whom  he  had  met  at  Lord  Mahon's  —  and  I  believe  I  said  I 
should  like  to  be  going  with  him  in  the  Arctic.  And  we 
parted  with  a  great  deal  of  kindness,  please  God,  and  friendly 
talk  of  a  future  meeting.  May  it  happen  one  day !  for  I  feel 
sure  he  was  a  just  man.  I  wanted  to  get  a  copy  of  '  Esmond  ' 
to  send  by  him  (the  first  edition,  which  is  the  good  one) ;  but 
I  did  not  know  where  to  light  on  one,  having  none  myself,  and 
a  month  since  bought  a  couple  of  copies  at  a  circulating  library 
for  js.  6d.  apiece. 

"  I  am  to-day  just  out  of  bed  after  another,  about  the 
dozenth,  severe  fit  of  spasms  which  I  have  this  year.  My 
book  would  have  been  written  but  for  them,  and  the  lectures 
begun,  with  which  I  hope  to  make  a  few  thousand  more  dol 
lars  for  those  young  ladies.  But  who  knows  whether  I  shall 
be  well  enough  to  deliver  them,  or  what  is  in  store  for  next 
year  ?  The  secretaryship  of  our  Legation  at  Washington  was 
vacant  the  other  day,  and  I  instantly  asked  for  it ;  but  in  the 
very  kindest  letter  Lord  Clarendon  showed  how  the  petition 
was  impossible.  First,  the  place  was  given  away:  next,  it 
would  not  be  fair  to  appoint  out  of  the  service.  But  the  first 
was  an  excellent  reason,  not  a  doubt  of  it.  So  if  ever  I  come, 
as  I  hope  and  trust  to  do  this  time  next  year,  it  must  be  in  my 
own  coat,  and  not  the  Queen's.  Good-by,  my  dear  Reed, 
and  believe  that  I  have  the  utmost  sympathy  in  your  misfort 
une,  and  am  most  sincerely  yours, 

"  W.  M.  THACKERAY." 


12  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

The  copy  of  "  Esmond "  was  for  my  wife,  who  had  ex 
pressed  her  liking  for  it  beyond  all  his  works.  It  came  the 
next  year  thus  inscribed  : 

"  With  the  grateful  regards  of 

W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

LONDON,  October  1855." 

And  is  now  among  the  most  cherished  volumes  in  our  library. 

In  the  winter  of  1855,  Mr.  Thackeray  made  his  second  and 
last  visit  to  this  country,  and  gave  us  the  first-fruits  of  his  new 
lecture  experiment,  "  The  Georges."  I  met  him  in  New  York 
and  heard  his  "  George  IV."  —  to  my  mind  the  least  agreeable 
of  the  course  —  delivered  before  a  literary  society  in  Brook 
lyn.  He  thence  came  to  Philadelphia,  and  renewed  his  old 
intimacies  and  associations.  His  friends  were  glad  to  see 
him,  and  he  them.  The  impression  we  all  had  was  that  two 
years  had  oldened  him  more  than  they  should  have  done  ;  but 
there  was  no  change  in  other  respects.  "  The  Georges " 
were,  if  possible,  a  greater  success  than  "  The  Humorists  ;  " 
though  I  confess  I  had,  and  have,  a  lurking  preference  for  the 
genial  communion  with  Steele  and  Fielding  (his  great  favor 
ites),  and  Swift  and  Sterne  (his  aversions),  to  the  dissection  of 
the  tainted  remains  of  the  Hanoverian  kings.  But  there  was 
in  one  of  these  lectures  a  passage  familiar  to  every  listener 
and  every  hearer  which  I  reproduce  here,  not  merely  from  an 
association  presently  to  be  referred  to,  but  because  it  seems  to 
me  in  transcribing  it  that  I  have  the  dead  again  before  me,  and 
hear  a  sweet  voice  in  the  very  printed  words  :  — 

"  What  preacher  need  moralize  on  this  story  ;  what  words 
save  the  simplest  are  requisite  to  tell  it  ?  It  is  too  terrible  for 
tears.  The  thought  of  such  a  misery  smites  me  down  in  sub 
mission  before  the  Ruler  of  kings  and  men,  the  Monarch  su 
preme  over  empires  and  republics,  the  inscrutable  Disposer 
of  life,  death,  happiness,  victory.  O  brothers  !  speaking  the 
same  dear  mother  tongue.  O  comrades  !  enemies  no  more, 
let  us  take  a  mournful  hand  together,  as  we  stand  by  this  royal 
corpse  and  call  a  truce  to  battle  !  Low  he  lies  to  whom  the 
proudest  used  to  kneel  once,  and  who  was  cast  lower  than  the 


TH ACKER  A  Y  IN  AMERICA.  1 3 

poorest :  dead,  whom  millions  prayed  for  in  vain.  Driven  off 
his  throne  ;  buffeted  by  rude  hands  ;  with  his  children  in  re 
volt  ;  the  darling  of  his  old  age  killed  before  him  untimely  ; 
our  Lear  hangs  over  her  breathless  lips  and  cries,  '  Cordelia, 
Cordelia,  stay  a  little  ! ' 

*  Vex  not  his  ghost  !  —  Oh  let  him  pass  — 

He  hates  him 

That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  rough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer  ! ' 

Hush  !  strife  and  quarrel,  over  the  solemn  grave  !  Sound, 
trumpets,  a  mournful  march  !  Fall,  dark  curtain,  upon  his 
pageant,  his  pride,  his  grief,  his  awful  tragedy  !  " 

Was  it  this,  or  was  it  the  other  passage  about  the  Princess 
Amelia  and  the  old  King  praying  for  returning  reason,  which 
Thackeray  referred  to  in  the  following  note,  written  to  me 
from  Baltimore,  in  answer  to  one  sending  an  adverse  criticism 
in  a  small  newspaper  of  Philadelphia  ? 

"  BALTIMORE,  January  16,  1856. 

"  MY  DEAR  REED,  —  Your  letter  of  the  9th,  with  one  from 
Boston  of  the  8th,  was  given  to  me  last  night  when  I  came 
home.  In  what  possible  snow-drift  have  they  been  lying  tor 
pid  ?  One  hundred  thanks  for  your  goodness  in  the  lecture, 
and  all  other  matters  ;  and  if  I  can  find  the  face  to  read  those 
printed  lectures  over  again,  I'll  remember  your  good  advice. 
That  splendid  crowd  on  the  last  lecture  night  I  knew  would 
make  our  critical  friend  angry.  I  have  not  seen  the  last  ar 
ticle,  of  course,  and  don't  intend  to  look  for  it.  And  as  I  was 
reading  the  George  III.  lecture  here  on  Monday  night,  could 
not  help  asking  myself,  '  What  can  the  man  mean  by  saying 
that  I  am  uncharitable,  unkindly  —  that  I  sneer  at  virtue?' 
and  so.  forth.  My  own  conscience  being  pretty  clear,  I  can 
receive  the  'Bulletin's'  displeasure  with  calmness  —  remem 
bering  how  I  used  to  lay  about  me  in  my  own  youthful  days, 
and  how  I  generally  took  a  good  tall  mark  to  hit  at. 

"  Wicked  weather,  and  an  opera  company  which  performed 
on  the  two  first  lecture  nights  here,  made  the  audiences  rather 


14  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

thin  ;  but  they  fetched  up  at  the  third  lecture,  and  to-night  is 
the  last ;  after  which  I  go  to  Richmond,  then  to  go  further 
south,  from  Charleston  to  Havannah  and  New  Orleans  ;  per 
haps  to  turn  back  and  try  westward,  where  I  know  there  is  a 
great  crop  of  dollars  to  be  reaped.  But  to  be  snow-bound  in 
my  infirm  condition  !  I  might  never  get  out  of  the  snow  alive. 

"  I  go  to  Washington  to-morrow  for  a  night.  I  was  there 
and  dined  with  Crampton  on  Saturday.  He  was  in  good  force 
and  spirits,  and  I  saw  no  signs  of  packing-up  or  portmanteaus 
in  the  hall. 

"  I  send  my  best  regards  to  Mrs.  Reed  and  your  sister-in- 
law,  and  Lewis  and  his  kind  folks,  and  to  Mac's  whisky-punch, 
which  gave  me  no  headache  ;  I  'm  very  sorry  it  treated  you 
so  unkindly.  Always  yours,  dear  Reed. 

"  W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

The  allusion  in  this  letter  to  the  printed  lectures  recalls  a 
little  incident  which  was  very  illustrative  of  his  generous 
temper,  and  is  not  unlike  "the  pill-box  with  the  guineas," 
which  I  have  seen  lately  in  some  literary  notices.  It  was  this  : 
On  his  return  to  Philadelphia,  in  the  spring  of  1856,  from  the 
south  and  west,  a  number  of  his  friends  —  I  as  much  as  any  one 

—  urged  him,  unwisely  as  it  turned  out,  to  repeat  his  lectures 
on  "  The  Humorists."     He  was  very  loath  to  do  it,  but  finally 
yielded,  being,  I  doubt  not,  somewhat  influenced  by  the  pecu 
niary  inducements    accidentally  held   out   to   him.     A   young 
bookseller  of  this  city  offered   him  a  round  sum  —  not  very 
large,  but,  under  the  circumstances,  quite  liberal  for  the  course 

—  which  he  accepted.     The  experiment  was  a  failure.     It  was 
late  in  the  season  with  long  days  and  shortening  nights,  and 
the  course  was  a  stale  one,  and  the  lectures  had  been  printed, 
and  the  audiences  were  thin,  and  the  bargain  was  disastrous, 
not  to  him,  but  to  the  young  gentleman  who  had  ventured  it. 
We  were  all  disappointed  and  mortified  ;  but  Thackeray  took 
it  good-humoredly  ;  the  only  thing  that  seemed  to  disturb  him 
being   his    sympathy   with   the   man   of   business.     "  I    don't 
mind  the  empty  benches,  but  I  cannot  bear  to  see  that  sad, 


THA  CKERA  Y  IN  AMERICA .  1 5 

pale-faced  young  man  as  I  come  out,  who  is  losing  money  on 
my  account."  This  he  used  to  say  at  my  house  when  he  came 
home  to  a  frugal  and  not  very  cheerful  supper  after  the  lect 
ure.  Still  the  bargain  had  been  fairly  made,  and  was  honor 
ably  complied  with  ;  and  the  money  was  paid  and  remitted, 
through  my  agency,  to  him  at  New  York.  I  received  no  ac 
knowledgment  of  the  remittance,  and  recollect  well  that  I  felt 
not  a  little  annoyed  at  this  ;  the  more  so,  when,  on  picking  up 
a  newspaper,  I  learned  that  Thackeray  had  sailed  for  home. 
The  day  after  he  had  gone,  when  there  could  be  no  refusal,  I 
received  a  certificate  of  deposit  on  his  New  York  bankers  for 
an  amount  quite  sufficient  to  meet  any  loss  incurred,  as  he 
thought,  on  his  behalf.  I  give  the  accompanying  note,  merely 
suppressing  the  name  of  the  gentleman  in  question.  There 
are  some  little  things  in  this  note  —  its  blanks  and  dates  —  to 
which  a  fac-simile  alone  would  do  justice  :  — 

"  April  24. 

"  MY  DEAR  REED, — When  you  get  this,  ....  remum- 
mum-ember  me  to  kick-kick-kind  ffu-fffu-ffriends  ....  a  sud 
den  resolution  —  to — mummum-morrow  ....  in  the  Bu-bu- 
baltic. 

"  Good-by,  my  dear  kind  friend,  and  all  kind  friends  in 
Philadelphia.  I  did  n't  think  of  going  away  when  I  left  home 
this  morning  ;  but  it 's  the  best  way. 

"  I  think  it  is  best  to  send  back  25  per  cent,  to  poor . 

Will  you  kindly  give  him  the  inclosed  ;  and  depend  on  it  I 
shall  go  and  see  Mrs.  Booth  when  I  go  to  London,  and  tell 
her  all  about  you.  My  heart  is  uncommonly  heavy  ;  and  I  am 
yours  gratefully  and  affectionately.  "  W.  M.  T." 

And  thus,  with  an  act  and  words  of  kindness,  he  left 
America,  never  to  return  ! 

It  was  during  this  visit  to  the  United  States  that,  as  he  told 
me,  the  idea  of  his  American  novel  "  The  Virginians,"  was 
conceived  ;  and  I  have  reason  to  think  that  some  of  the  de 
tails  in  the  story  were  due  as  well  to  Mr.  Prescott's  "  Crossed 
Swords  "  as  to  conversations  with  me  at  a  time  when  my  mind 


1 6  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY, 

was  full  of  historical  associations  and  suggestions,  and  when 
to  think  of  my  country's  story  was  matter  of  pride  and  pleas 
ure.  In  the  letter  of  November  1854,  on  my  brother's  death, 
Mr.  Thackeray  speaks  of  "  The  Memoirs  of  Hester  Reed," 
which  he  had  found  on  his  study-table.  This  was  a  little 
volume,  privately  printed  a  few  years  before,  containing  the 
biography  of  my  paternal  grandmother,  Esther  de  Berdt,  a 
young  English  girl,  who  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  her 
American  lover  when,  in  colony  times,  he  was  a  student  in  the 
Temple.  They  married  —  came  to  this  country  :  he  became 
a  soldier  of  the  Revolution,  and  she,  sharing  her  husband's 
feelings  and  opinions  and  trials,  died,  still  a  young  woman,  in 
the  middle  of  the  war.  As  I  have  said,  Esther  Reed  was  my 
father's  mother.  Mr.  Thackeray  seemed  pleased  with  the 
genuineness  of  the  little  book,  and  talked  often  of  it.  The 
names  "  Hetty "  and  "  Theodosia  "  (the  latter,  I  believe,  in 
his  family  also),  which  appear  in  "  The  Virginians,"  are  to  be 
found  in  my  homely  narrative  of  Revolutionary  times.  One 
other  suggestion  I  trace  in  "  The  Virginians."  I  recollect  in 
one  of  our  rambles  telling  him  of  a  book  which  he  did  not 
seem  to  know  ;  and  I  can  hardly  say  that  it  is  to  my  credit 
that  I  did  — "  The  Memoirs  of  the  Duke  de  Lauzun."  We 
spoke  of  the  dispute  as  to  its  genuineness  (its  authenticity  as 
a  record  of  the  intrigues  of  a  courtier  of  Louis  XV.  there  was 
no  reason  to  doubt),  and  I  called  his  attention  to  the  fact,  very 
creditable  to  my  countrywomen  of  ancient  days,  that  while 
Lauzun's  life,  not  only  in  France,  where  it  was  natural  enough, 
but  in  England,  was  a  continuity  of  atrocious  licentiousness, 
with  his  victims'  names  revealed  as  only  a  Frenchman  of  that 
day  was  capable  of  doing,  the  moment  he  lands  in  America, 
accompanying  Rochambeau's  army  to  Rhode  Island,  the 
wicked  spirit  seems  rebuked  by  the  purity  and  simplicity  of 
American  women  ;  and  though  he  mentions  the  names  of 
several  ladies  whom  he  met,  there  is  not  a  word  of  indecorum 
or  whispered  thought  of  impurity.  This  idea  the  reader  will 
find  stated  in  "  The  Virginians  "  thus  :  — 

"  There  lived  during  the  last  century  a  certain  French  duke 


THACKERA  Y  IN  AMERICA.  \  7 

and  marquis  who  distinguished  himself  in  Europe,  and  Amer 
ica  likewise,  and  has  obliged  posterity  by  leaving  behind  him 
a  choice  volume  of  memoirs,  which  the  gentle  reader  is  spe 
cially  warned  not  to  consult.  Having  performed  the  part  of 
Don  Juan  in  his  own  country,  in  ours,  and  in  other  parts  of 
Europe,  he  has  kindly  noted  down  the  names  of  many  court 
beauties  who  fell  victims  to  his  powers  of  fascination ;  and 
very  pleasing,  no  doubt,  it  must  be  for  the  grandsons  and  de 
scendants  of  the  fashionable  persons  among  whom  our  bril 
liant  nobleman  moved,  to  find  the  names  of  their  ancestresses 
adorning  M.  le  Due's  sprightly  pages,  and  their  frailties  re 
corded  by  the  candid  writer  who  caused  them.  In  the  course 
of  the  peregrinations  of  this  nobleman  he  visited  North 
America,  and,  as  had  been  his  custom  in  Europe,  proceeded 
straightway  to  fall  in  love.  And  curious  it  is  to  contrast  the 
elegant  refinements  of  European  society —  where,  according  to 
Monseigneur,  he  had  but  to  lay  siege  to  a  woman  in  order  to 
vanquish  her  —  with  the  simple  lives  and  habits  of  the  colo 
nial  folks,  amongst  whom  the  European  enslaver  of  hearts  did 
not,  it  appears,  make  a  single  conquest.  Had  he  done  so,  he 
would  as  certainly  have  narrated  his  victories  in  Pennsylvania 
and  New  England  as  he  described  his  successes  in  this  and 
his  own  country.  Travellers  in  America  have  cried  quite 
loudly  enough  against  the  rudeness  and  barbarism  of  Trans 
atlantic  manners  ;  let  the  present  writer  give  the  humble  tes 
timony  of  his  experience,  that  the  conversation  of  American 
gentlemen  is  generally  modest,  and,  to  the  best  of  his  belief, 
the  lives  of  the  women  pure." 

"The  Virginians"  appeared  in  monthly  numbeis  while  I 
was  absent  on  my  mission  to  China  in  1858,  and  there  I  read 
it.  In  the  tone  of,  I  hope  pardonable,  egotism  in  which  I 
have  thus  far  written,  I  transcribe  an  entry  in  the  little  diary 
I  kept  in  the  East  for  the  amusement  of  my  wife  and  family 
at  home  :  — 

"Friday,  July  23,  Shanghae.  —  Read  to-day  No.  VII.  of 
4  The  Virginians.'  I  still  like  it,  though  I  fear  my  friend  Lord 
Chesterfield  will  fare  badly.  I  don't  care  what  is  said  about 

2 


1 8  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

old  Q.,  or  any  of  the  Selwyn  party.  In  one  of  his  letters  (this 
I  have  lost  or  mislaid,  or  some  felonious  autograph-hunter  has 
purloined  it)  to  me  long  ago,  Thackeray,  when  he  was  project 
ing  'The  Virginians,'  told  me  he  should  use  *  Esther  de 
Berdt ; '  and  now  I  see  his  heroines  are  '  Hetty '  and  *  Theodo- 
shi,'  and  from  the  same  rank  of  life  —  almost  the  only  pure 
one  then  —  to  which  my  '  Hetty  '  belonged.  But  what  beauti 
ful  heart-stirring  tilings  one  meets  in  his  books  !  I  can't  help 
copying  one  :  *  Canst  thou,  O  friendly  reader,  count  upon  the 
fidelity  of  an  artless  or  tender  heart  or  two,  and  reckon  among 
the  blessings  which  Heaven  hath  bestowed  on  thee  the  love  of 
faithful  women  ?  Purify  thy  own  heart,  and  try  to  make  it 
worthy  theirs.  On  thy  knees  —  on  thy  knees,  give  thanks  for 
the  blessings  awarded  thee  !  All  the  blessings  of  life  are 
nothing  compared  with  that  one  — all  the  rewards  of  ambition, 
pleasure,  wealth,  only  vanity  and  disappointment  grasped  at 
greedily,  and  fought  for  fiercely,  and  over  and  over  again 
found  worthless  by  the  weary  winners.  But  love  seems  to 
survive  life,  and  to  reach  beyond  it.  I  think  we  take  it  with 
us  past  the  grave.  Do  we  not  still  give  it  to  those  who  have 
left  us  ?  May  we  not  hope  that  they  feel  it  for  us,  and  that  we 
shall  leave  it  here  in  one  or  two  fond  bosoms  when  we  also 
are  gone  ? '  You  will  think  I  have  very  little  to  do  or  record 
to  have  time  to  make  so  long  extracts  ;  but  I  could  not  help  it, 
for  the  magic  words  touched  me." 

On  my  appointment  to  China,  Thackeray  was  among  the 
first  to  congratulate  me,  at  the  same  time  begging  me  —  as  he' 
seemed  to  take  for  granted  that  my  route  to  the  East  would 
be  what,  by  an  odd  misnomer,  is  called  the  "  overland  "  —  to 
stop  with  him  in  London.  I  went,  however,  by  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope,  and  it  was  not  till  my  return  in  the  spring  of  1859 
that  we  met  again.  From  Malta,  or  some  point  on  the  Con 
tinent,  I  wrote  to  ask  him,  having  due  regard  to  economy,  my 
party  being  numerous,  and  to  the  odor  of  official  station  which 
still  hung  round  me,  to  get  me  suitable  lodgings  in  Lon 
don,  and  the  following  perfectly  characteristic  note  was  the 
answer :  — 


THACKERAY  IN  .!.}//•  A' /CA.  19 

MAURIGY'S  HOTEL,  i  REGENT  STREF.T,  WATERLOO  Ti,  <  K, 
April  2,  1859. 

"  MY  DEAR  REED,  —This  is  the  best  place  for  you,  I  think. 
Two  bishops  already  in  the  house.  Country-gentlefolks  and 
American  envoys  especially  affect  it.  Mr.  Maurigy  says  you 
may  come  for  a  day  at  the  rate  of  some  ten  guineas  a-week, 
with  rooms  very  clean  and  nice,  which  I  have  just  gone  over, 
and  go  away  at  the  clay's  end  if  you  disapprove. 

"  This  letter  [referring  to  one  inclosed}  is  about  the  Athe 
naeum,  where  you  may  like  to  look  in.  I  wrote  to  Lord  Stan 
hope,  who  is  on  the  committee,  to  put  you  up. 

"  I  won't  bore  you  by  asking  you  to  dinner  till  we  see  how 
matters  are,  as  of  course  you  will  consort  with  bigger  wigs 
than  yours  always, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

No  "  bigger  wigs  "  came  between  us.  During  my  fortnight 
in  London  —  for  I  was  hastening  home  after  two  years'  ab 
sence  —  we  saw  him  nearly  every  day.  He  came  regularly  to 
our  quarters,  went  with  me  to  the  Athenaeum  —  that  spot  of 
brilliant  association  —  where  he  pointed  out  the  eminent  men 
of  whom  I  had  heard  and  read  ;  and  then  he  would  go  to  his 
working-table  in  the  Club  Library,  and  write  for  the  '  Corn- 
hill.'  He  would  carry  my  son,  a  young  man  just  of  age,  off 
with  him  to  see  the  London  world  in  odd  "  haunts."  I  dined 
with  him  twice  :  once  at  his  modest  house  in  Onslow  Square, 
where  \ve  had  the  great  pleasure  of  seeing  his  daughters  ;  and 
once  at  Greenwich,  at  a  bachelor's  dinner,  where  I  made  the 
acquaintance,  since  ripened  into  intimacy,  of  another  friend, 
who  I  am  sure  will  excuse  this  distant  allusion  to  him.  We 
looked  out  on  the  Park,  and  the  river  where  the  Great  East 
ern  was  lying  before  her  first  voyage,  and  talked  of  America 
and  American  associations,  and  of  the  chance  of  his  coming 
again.1  And  our  last  dinner  was  over.  I  left  London  on  the 
30th  April,  1859.  Mr.  and  Miss  Thackeray  were  at  the  Euston 
Square  station  to  say  farewell.  He  took  my  son  aside,  and  to 
his  infinite  confusion  handed  him  a  little  cadeau,  which  I  hope 

1  "  When  the  magazine  slavery  was  at  an  end." 


2O  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

he  will  always  cherish  with  pride  for  the  sake  of  the  giver. 
We  parted  with  a  great  deal  of  kindness,  please  God,  and 
friendly  talk  of  a  future  meeting.  May  it  happen  one  day  ; 
for  I  feel  sure  he  is  a  just  man. 

My  pious  duty  is  nearly  done.  On  my  return  to  America 
our  correspondence  naturally  enough  languished  :  each  was 
much  occupied  ;  he  with  drudgery  which  was  exhausting  and 
engrossing.  I  often  received  kind  messages  and  sometimes 
apologies.  After  the  Civil  War  began,  no  letter  passed  be 
tween  us.  I  had  not  the  heart  to  write,  and  I  don't  believe  he 
had  ;  for  I  reject  with  emphasis  the  idea  that  his  gentle  nature 
could  feel  aught  but  horror  at  this  war  of  brethren  —  "  broth 
ers  speaking  the  same  dear  mother  tongue."  1  His  American 
novel  and  his  pictures  of  life  in  ancient  days  at  Castlewood 
on  the  Potomac,  show  this  abundantly.2  He  had  been  in  the 
South  and  met  Southern  ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  highest 
types  of  American  civilization.  This  I  may  say  now  in 
their  hour  of  suffering  and  possible  disaster.  He  had  visited 
Southern  homes,  and  shared  Southern  hospitality. 

As  recently  as  February,  1862,  in  one  of  his  fugitive  essays, 
he  referred  to  an  incident  of  our  days  of  sorrow,  and  thus 
embalmed  his  affectionate  regard  for  a  distant  friend  on  whom 
the  hand  of  arbitrary  power  was,  or  was  supposed  to  be,  laid. 
I  have  reason  to  believe  the  reference  was  to  a  gentleman 
long  a  resident  of  Savannah. 

"  I  went  to  the  play  one  night,  and  protest  I  hardly  knew 
what  was  the  entertainment  which  passed  before  my  eyes. 
In  the  next  stall  was  an  American  gentleman  who  knew  me. 
....  And  the  Christmas  piece  which  the  actors  were  play 
ing  proceeded  like  a  piece  in  a  dream.  To  make  the  grand 
comic  performance  doubly  comic,  my  neighbor  presently  in 
formed  me  how  one  of  the  best  friends  I  had  in  America  — 
the  most  hospitable,  kindly,  amiable  of  men,  from  whom  I  had 
twice  received  the  warmest  welcome,  and  the  most  delightful 

1  More  than  any  Englishman  of  letters  I  have  ever  known,  he  was  free  from  that 
sentimental  disease  "  abolitionism  !  " 

2  His  estimate  of  Mrs.  Stowe's  evil-omened  future  in  one  of  the  letters  that  1 
have  given,  shows  it. 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  21 

hospitality  —  was  a  prisoner  in  Fort  Warren  on  charges  by 
which  his  life  might  be  risked.  I  think  it  was  the  most  dis 
mal  Christmas  piece  these  eyes  ever  looked  on." 

One  other  memorandum  I  did  receive  from  my  friend.  In 
the  summer  of  1863  an  Anglo-Indian  officer  brought  me  the 
following  note  written  on  one  of  the  little  book-slips  used  in 
the  Reading-Room  of  the  British  Museum. 

"  At  sight  pay  any  kindness  you  can  to  the  bearer,  Major 
F.  Goldsmith,  an.d  debit  the  same  to  your  old  friend, 

"  W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

My  little  memorial  is  finished.  I  have  written  it  in  a  frame 
of  mind  distracted  by  all  that  in  these  last  few  days  has  been 
going  on  around  me,  with  two  objects  :  one,  to  embalm,  I 
trust  not  unpleasantly  to  any  one,  the  memories  I  happen  to 
have  of  a  friend  who  was  dear  to  me  ;  the  other,  to  try  by  a 
desperate  intellectual  effort  to  throw  aside,  if  but  for  a  mo 
ment  (and  the  date  will  show  why  I  feel  so),  the  burden  of 
consciousness  that  bloody  deeds  are  now  doing  which  will 
bring  new  sorrow  into  many  a  home. 

THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER. 

That  Mr.  Thackeray  was  born  in  India  in  1811  ;  that  he 
was  educated  at  Charter  House  and  Cambridge  ;  that  he  left 
the  University  after  a  few  terms'  residence  without  a  degree  ; 
that  he  devoted  himself  at  first  to  art ;  that  in  pursuit  thereof 
he  lived  much  abroad  "  for  study,  for  sport,  for  society  ;  "  that 
about  the  age  of  twenty-five,  married,  without  fortune,  without 
a  profession,  he  began  the  career  which  has  made  him  an 
English  classic  ;  that  he  pursued  that  career  steadily  till  his 
death,  —  all  this  has,  within  the  last  few  weeks,  been  told 
again  and  again. 

It  is  a  common  saying  that  the  lives  of  men  of  letters  are 
uneventful.  In  an  obvious  sense  this  is  true.  They  are  sel 
dom  called  on  to  take  part  in  events  which  move  the  world, 
in  politics,  in  the  conflicts  of  nations  ;  while  the  exciting  inci 
dents  of  sensation-novels  are  as  rare  in  their  lives  as  in  the 


22  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

lives  of  other  men.  But  men  of  letters  are  in  no  way  exempt 
from  the  changes  and  chances  of  fortune  ;  and  the  story  of 
these,  and  of  the  effects  which  came  from  them,  must  possess 
an  interest  for  all.  Prosperity  succeeded  by  cruel  reverses  ; 
happiness,  and  the  long  prospect  of  it,  suddenly  clouded  ;  a 
hard  fight,  with  aims  as  yet  uncertain,  and  powers  unknown  ; 
success  bravely  won  ;  the  austerer  victory  of  failure  manfully 
borne,  —these  things  make  a  life  truly  eventful,  and  make  the 
story  of  that  life  full  of  interest  and  instruction.  They  will  all 
fall  to  be  narrated  when  Mr.  Thackeray's  life  shall  be  written  ; 
'  we  have  only  now  to  do  with  them  so  far  as  they  illustrate  his 
literary  career,  of  which  we  propose  to  lay  before  our  readers 
an  account  as  complete  as  is  in  our  power,  and  as  impartial  as 
our  warm  admiration  for  the  great  writer  we  have  lost  will 
allow. 

Many  readers  know  Mr.  Thackeray  only  as  the  Thackeray 
of  "  Vanity  Fair,"  "  Pendennis,"  "  The  Newcomes,"  and 
"  The  Virginians,"  the  quadrilateral  of  his  fame,  as  they  were 
called  by  the  writer  of  an  able  and  kindly  notice  in  the  "  Il 
lustrated  News."  The  four  volumes  of  "  Miscellanies  " 
published  in  1857,  though  his  reputation  had  been  then 
established,  are  less  known  than  they  should  be.  But  Mr. 
Thackeray  wrote  much  which  does  not  appear  even  in  the 
"  Miscellanies  "  ;  and  some  account  of  his  early  labors  may 
not  be  unacceptable  to  our  readers. 

His  first  attempt  was  ambitious.  He  became  connected  as 
editor,  and  also,  we  suspect,  in  some  measure,  as  proprietor, 
with  a  weekly  literary  journal,  the  fortunes  of  which  were  not 
prosperous.  We  believe  the  journal  to  have  been  one  which 
bore  the  imposing  title  of  "  The  National  Standard  and  Jour 
nal  of  Literature,  Science,  Music,  Theatricals,  and  the  Fine 
Arts."  Thackeray's  editorial  reign  began  about  the  I9th 
Number,  after  which  he  seems  to  have  done  a  good  deal  of 
work,  —  reviews,  letters,  criticisms,  and  verses.  As  the  "  Na 
tional  Standard  "  is  now  hardly  to  be  met  with  out  of  the 
British  Museum,  we  give  a  few  specimens  of  these  first  efforts. 
There  is  a  mock  sonnet  by  W.  Wordsworth,  illustrative  of 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  2$ 

a  drawing  of  Brabam  in  stage  nautical  costume,  standing  by  a 
theatrical  sea-shore  ;  in  the  background  an  Israelite,  with  the 
clothes-bag  and  triple  hat  of  his  ancient  race  ;  and  in  the  sky, 
constellation-wise,  appears  a  Jew's  harp,  with  a  chaplet  of 
bays  round  it.  The  sonnet  runs  :  — 

"  Say  not  that  Judah's  harp  hath  lost  its  tone, 
Or  that  no  bard  hath  found  it  where  it  hung 
Broken  and  lonely,  voiceless  and  unstrung, 
Beside  the  sluggish  streams  of  Babylon  : 
Slowman  l  repeats  the  strain  his  fathers  sung, 
And  Judah's  burning  lyre  is  Braham's  own  ! 
Behold  him  here !     Here  view  the  wondrous  man, 
Majestical  and  lonely,  as  when  first, 
In  music  on  a  wondering  world  he  burst, 
And  charmed  the  ravished  ears  of  Sov' reign  Anne.2 
Mark  well  the  form,  O  reader !  nor  deride 
The  sacred  symbol —  Jew's  harp  glorified  — 
Which,  circled  with  a  blooming  wreath,  is  seen 
Of  verdant  bays  ;  and  thus  are  typified 
The  pleasant  music,  and  the  baize  of  green, 
Whence  issues  out  at  eve  Braham  with  front  serene." 

We  have  here  the  germ  of  a  style  in  which  Thackeray  be 
came  famous,  though  the  humor  of  attributing  this  nonsense 
to  Wordsworth,  and  of  making  Braham  coeval  with  Queen 
Anne,  is  not  now  very  plain.  There  is  a  yet  more  character 
istic  touch  in  a  review  of  Montgomery's  "Woman  the  Angel 
of  Life,"  winding  up  with  a  quotation  of  some  dozen  lines,  the 
order  of  which  he  says  has  been  reversed  by  the  printer,  but 
as  they  read  quite  as  well  the  one  way  as  the  other,  he  does 
not  think  it  worth  while  to  correct  the  mistake  !  A  comical 
tale,  called  the  "  Devil's  Wager,"  afterwards  reprinted  in  the 
"  Paris  Sketch-Book,"  also  appeared  in  the  "  National  Stand 
ard,"  with  a  capital  wood-cut,  representing  the  Devil  as  sailing 
through  the  air,  dragging  after  him  the  fat  Sir  Roger  de  Rollo 

1  "  It  is  needless  to  speak  of  the  eminent  vocalist  and  improvisatore.     He  nightly 
delights  a  numerous  and  respectable  audience  at  the  Cider  Cellar  ;  and  while  on  this 
subject,  I  cannot  refrain  from  mentioning  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Evans,  the  worthy 
proprietor  of  that   establishment.       N.    B. — A  table   d^hbte   every   Friday.  —  W. 
WORDSWORTH." 

2  u  Mr.    Braham  made   his  first  appearance  in  England  in  the   reign  of  Queen 
Anne. -W.  W." 


24  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

by  means  of  his  tail,  which  is  wound  round  Sir  Roger's  neck. 
The  idea  of  this  tale  is  characteristic.  The  venerable  knight, 
already  in  the  other  world,  has  made  a  foolish  bet  with  the 
Devil  involving  very  seriously  his  future  prospects  there, 
which  he  can  only  win  by  persuading  some  of  his  relatives  on 
earth  to  say  an  Ave  for  him.  He  fails  to  obtain  this  slight 
boon  from  a  kinsman  successor  for  obvious  reasons  ;  and 
from  a  beloved  niece,  owing  to  a  musical  lover  whose  serenad 
ing  quite  puts  a  stop  to  her  devotional  exercises  ;  and  suc 
ceeds  at  last,  only  when,  giving  up  all  hope  from  compassion 
or  generosity,  he  appeals  by  a  pious  fraud  to  the  selfishness  of 
a  brother  and  a  monk.  The  story  ends  with  a  very  Thacke- 
rean  touch  :  "  The  moral  of  this  story  will  be  given  in  several 
successive  numbers  ;  "  the  last  three  words  are  in  the  Sketch- 
Book  changed  into  "  the  second  edition." 

Perhaps  best  of  all  is  a  portrait  of  Louis  Philippe,  present 
ing  the  Citizen  King  under  the  Robert  Macaire  aspect,  the 
adoption  and  popularity  of  which  Thackeray  so  carefully  ex 
plains  and  illustrates  in  his  Essay  on  "  Caricatures  and  Lith 
ography  in  Paris."  Below  the  portrait  are  these  lines,  not 
themselves  very  remarkable,  but  in  which,  especially  in  the 
allusion  to  Snobs  by  the  destined  enemy  of  the  race,  we  catch 
glimpses  of  the  future  :  — 

"  Like  '  the  king  in  the  parlor '  he  's  fumbling  his  money, 
Like  '  the  queen  in  the  kitchen  '  his  speech  is  all  honey, 
Except  when  he  talks  it,  like  Emperor  Nap, 
Of  his  wonderful  feats  at  Fleurus  and  Jemappe ; 
But  alas !  all  his  zeal  for  the  multitude  's  gone, 
And  of  no  numbers  thinking  except  Number  One ! 
No  huzzas  greet  his  coming,  no  patriot  club  licks 
The  hand  of '  the  best  of  created  republics :  ' 
He  stands  in  Paris,  as  you  see  him  before  ye, 
Little  more  than  a  snob.     That 's  an  end  of  the  story." 

The  journal  seems  to  have  been  an  attempt  to  substitute 
vigorous  and  honest  criticism  of  books  and  of  art  for  the  par 
tiality  and  slipslop  general  then,  and  now  not  perhaps  quite 
unknown.  It  failed,  however,  partly,  it  may  be,  from  the  in 
experience  of  its  managers,  but  doubtless  still  more  from  the 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  2$ 

want  of  the  capital  necessary  to  establish  anything  of  the  sort 
in  the  face  of  similar  journals  of  old  standing.  People  get 
into  a  habit  of  taking  certain  periodicals  unconsciously,  as 
they  take  snuff.  The  "  National  Standard,"  etc.,  etc.,  came 
into  existence  on  the  5th  January,  1833,  and  ceased  to  be  on 
the  ist  February,  1834. 

His  subsequent  writings  contain  several  allusions  to  this 
misadventure  ;  from  some  of  which  we  would  infer  that  the 
breakdown  of  the  journal  was  attended  with  circumstances 
more  unpleasant  than  mere  literary  failure.  Mr.  Adolphus 
Simcoe  a  ("  Punch,"  Vol.  III.),  when  in  a  bad  way  from  a  love 
of  literature  and  drink,  completed  his  ruin  by  purchasing  and 
conducting  for  six  months  that  celebrated  miscellany  called 
the  "  Lady's  Lute,"  after  which  time  "  its  chords  were  rudely 
snapped  asunder,  and  he  who  had  swept  them  aside  with 
such  joy  went  forth  a  wretched  and  heart-broken  man."  And 
in  "  Lovel  the  Widower,"  Mr.  Batchelor  narrates  similar  ex 
periences  :  — 

"  I  dare  say  I  gave  myself  airs  as  editor  of  that  confounded 
"  Museum,"  and  proposed  to  educate  the  public  taste,  to  dif 
fuse  morality  and  sound  literature  throughout  the  nation,  and 
to  pocket  a  liberal  salary  in  return  for  my  services.  I  dare 
say  I  printed  my  own  sonnets,  my  own  tragedy,  my  own 
verses  (to  a  being  who  shall  be  nameless,  but  whose  conduct 
has  caused  a  faithful  heart  to  bleed  not  a  little).  I  dare  say  I 
wrote  satirical  articles,  in  which  I  piqued  myself  on  the  fine 
ness  of  my  wit  and  criticisms,  got  up  for  the  nonce,  out  of  en 
cyclopaedias  and  biographical  dictionaries  ;  so  that  I  would  be 
actually  astonished  at  my  own  knowledge.  I  dare  say  I  made 
a  gaby  of  myself  to  the  world  ;  pray,  my  good  friend,  hast 

1  The  portrait  of  Mr.  Adolphus,  stretched  out,  "  careless  diffused,''  —  seedy,  hun 
gry,  and  diabolical,  in  his  fashionable  cheap  hat,  his  dirty  white  duck  trousers 
strapped  tightly  down,  as  being  the  mode  and  possibly  to  conceal  his  bare  legs  ;  a 
half-smoked,  probably  unsmokably  bad  cigar,  in  his  hand,  which  is  lying  over  the 
arm  of" a  tavern  bench,  from  whence  he  is  casting  a  greedy  and  ruffian  eye  upon  some 
unseen  fellows,  supping  plenteously  and  with  cheer,  — is,  for  power  and  drawing,  not 
unworthy  of  Hogarth. 


26  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

thou  never  done  likewise  ?     If  thou  hast  never  been  a  fool, 
be  sure  thou  wilt  never  be  a  wise  man." 

Silence  for  a  while  seems  to  have  followed  upon  this  failure  ; 
but  in  1836  his  first  attempt  at  independent  authorship  ap 
peared  simultaneously  at  London  and  Paris.  This  publication, 
at  a  time  when  he  still  hoped  to  make  his  bread  by  art,  is,  like 
indeed  everything  he  either  said  or  did,  so  characteristic,  and 
has  been  so  utterly  forgotten,  that  an  account  of  it  may  not  be 
out  of  place,  perhaps  more  minute  than  its  absolute  merits  de 
serve. 

It  is  a  small  folio,  with  six  lithographs,  slightly  tinted,  en 
titled  "  Flore  et  Zephyr,  Ballet  Mythologique  dedie  a  —  par 
Theophile  Wagstaffe."  Between  "a"  and  "par"  on  the 
cover  is  the  exquisite  Flore  herself,  all  alone  in  some  rosy  and 
bedizened  bower.  She  has  the  old  Jaded  smirk,  and,  with 
eyebrows  up  and  eyelids  dropt,  she  is  looking  down  oppressed 
with  modesty  and  glory.  Her  nose,  which  is  long,  and  has  a 
ripe  droop,  gives  to  the  semicircular  smirk  of  the  large  mouth, 
down  upon  the  centre  of  which  it  comes  in  the  funniest  way, 
an  indescribably  sentimental  absurdity.  Her  thin,  sinewy 
arms  and  large  hands  are  crossed  on  her  breast,  and  her  petti 
coat  stands  out  like  an  inverted  white  tulip  —  of  muslin  —  out 
of  which  come  her  professional  legs,  in  the  only  position  which 
human  nature  never  puts  its  legs  into  ;  it  is  her  special  pose. 
Of  course,  also,  you  are  aware,  by  that  smirk,  that  look  of  being 
looked  at,  that  though  alone  in  maiden  meditation  in  this  her 
bower,  and  sighing  for  her  Zephyr,  she  is  in  front  of  some 
thousand  pairs  of  eyes,  and  under  the  fire  of  many  double-bar 
relled  lorgnettes,  of  which  she  is  the  focus. 

In  the  first  plate,  "  La  Danse  fait  ses  offrandes  sur  1'  autel 
de  1'harmonie,"  in  the  shapes  of  Flore  and  Zephyr  coming 
trippingly  to  the  footlights,  and  paying  no  manner  of  regard  to 
the  altar  of  harmony,  represented  by  a  fiddle  with  an  old  and 
dreary  face,  and  a  laurel-wreath  on  its  head,  and  very  great 
regard  to  the  unseen  but  perfectly  understood  "  house." 
Next  is  "  Triste  et  abattu,  les  seductions  des  Nymphes  le 


THACKERAY'S   LITERARY  CAREER.  2J 

(Zephyr)  tentent  en  vain,"  Zephyr  looking  theatrically  sad. 
Then  "  Flore  "  (with  one  lower  extremity  at  more  than  a  right 
angle  to  the  other)  "  de'plore  1'absence  de  Zephyr."  The  man 
in  the  orchestra  endeavoring  to  combine  business  with  pleasure, 
so  as  to  play  the  flageolet  and  read  his  score,  and  at  the  same 
time  miss  nothing  of  the  deploring,  is  intensely  comic.  Next 
Zephyr  has  his  turn,  and  "  dans  un  pas  seul  exprime  sa  su 
preme  de'sespoir,"  —  the  extremity  of  despair  being  expressed 
by  doubling  one  leg  so  as  to  touch  the  knee  of  the  other,  and 
then  whirling  round  so  as  to  suggest  the  regulator  of  a  steam- 
engine  run  off.  Next  is  the  rapturous  reconciliation,  when 
the  faithful  creature  bounds  into  his  arms,  and  is  held  up  to 
the  house  by  the  waist  in  the  wonted  fashion.  Then  there  is 
"  La  Retraite  de  Flore,"  where  we  find  her  with  her  mother 
and  two  admirers,  —  Zephyr,  of  course,  not  one.  This  is  in 
Thackeray's  strong,  unflinching  line.  One  lover  is  a  young 
dandy  without  forehead  or  chin,  sitting  idiotically  astride  his 
chair.  To  him  the  old  lady,  who  has  her  slight  rouge,  too, 
and  is  in  a  homely  shawl  and  muff,  having  walked,  is  making 
faded  love.  In  the  centre  is  the  fair  darling  herself  still  on 
tiptoe,  and  wrapped  up,  but  not  too  much,  for  her  fiacre.  With 
his  back  to  the  comfortable  fire,  and  staring  wickedly  at  her, 
is  the  other  lover,  a  big,  burly,  elderly  man,  probably  well  to 
do  on  the  Bourse,  and  with  a  wife  and  family  at  home  in  their 
beds.  The  last  exhibits  "  Les  delassements  de  Zephyr."  That 
hard-working  and  homely  personage  is  resting  his  arm  on  the 
chimney-piece,  taking  a  huge  pinch  of  snuff  from  the  box  of  a 
friend,  with  a  refreshing  expression  of  satisfaction,  the  only 
bit  of  nature  as  yet.  A  dear  little  innocent  pot-boy,  such  as 
only  Thackeray  knew  how  to  draw,  is  gazing  and  waiting  upon 
the  two,  holding  up  a  tray  from  the  nearest  tavern,  on  which 
is  a  great  pewter-pot  of  foaming  porter  for  Zephyr,  and  a 
rummer  of  steaming  brandy  and  water  for  his  friend,  who  has 
come  in  from  the  cold  air.  These  drawings  are  lithographed 
by  Edward  Morton,  son  of  "  Speed  the  Plough,"  and  are  done 
with  that  delicate  strength  and  truth  for  which  this  excellent 
but  little  known  artist  is  always  to  be  praised.  In  each  corner 


28  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

is   the  monogram  ^Rr,  which  appears  so  often   afterwards 


with  the  M  added,  and  is  itself  superseded  by  the  well-known 
pair  of  spectacles.  Thackeray  must  have  been  barely  five-and- 
twenty  when  this  was  published  by  Mitchell  in  Bond  Street. 
It  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  sold. 

Now  it  is  worth  noticing  how  in  this,  as  always,  he  ridiculed 
the  ugly  and  the  absurd  in  truth  and  pureness.  There  is,  as 
we  may  well  know,  much  that  is  wicked  (though  not  so  much 
as  the  judging  community  are  apt  to  think)  and  miserable  in 
such  a  life.  There  is  much  that  a  young  man  and  artist  might 
have  felt  and  drawn  in  depicting  it,  of  which  in  after  years  he 
would  be  ashamed  ;  but  "  Theophile  Wagstaffe  "  has  done 
nothing  of  this.  The  effect  of  looking  over  these  juvenilia 

—  these  first  shafts  from  that  mighty  bow,  now,  alas  !  unbent 

—  is   good,  is    moral  ;    you  are    sorry  for  the   hard-wrought 
slaves  ;  perhaps  a  little  contemptuous  towards  the  idle  people 
who  go  to  see  them  ;  and  you  feel,  moreover,  that  the  "  Bal 
let,"  as  thus  done,  is  ugly  as  well  as  bad,  is  stupid  as  well  as 
destructive  of  decency. 

His  dream  of  editorship  being  ended,  Mr.  Thackeray  thence 
forward  contented  himself  with  the  more  lowly,  but  less  re 
sponsible,  position  of  a  contributor,  especially  to  "  Eraser's 
Magazine."  The  youth  of  "  Fraser  "  was  full  of  vigor  and 
genius.  We  know  no  better  reading  than  its  early  volumes, 
unsparing  indeed,  but  brilliant  with  scholarship  and  originality 
and  fire.  In  these  days,  the  staff  of  that  periodical  included 
such  men  as  Maginn,  "  Barry  Cornwall,"  Coleridge,  Carlyle, 
Hogg,  Gait,  Theodore  Hook,  Delta,  Gleig,  Edward  Irving, 
and,  now  among  the  greatest  of  them  all,  Thackeray.  The 
first  of  the  "  Yellowplush  Correspondence  "  appeared  in  No 
vember,  1837.  The  world  should  be  grateful  to  Mr.  John 
Henry  Skelton,  who  in  that  year  wrote  a  book  called  "  My 
Book,  or  the  Anatomy  of  Conduct,"  for  to  him  is  owing  the 
existence  of  Mr.  Charles  Yellowplush  as  a  critic,  and  as  a 
narrator  of  "  fashnable  fax  and  polite  annygoats."  Mr.  Yel 
lowplush  on  reading  Mr.  Skelton's  book,  saw  at  once  that  only 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  29 

a  gentleman  of  his  distinguished  profession  could  competently 
criticise  the  same  ;  and  this  was  soon  succeeded  by  the  wider 
conviction  that  the  great  subject  of  fashionable  life  should  not 
be  left  to  any  "  common  writin  creatures,"  but  that  an  au 
thentic  picture  thereof  must  he  supplied  by  "  ONE  OF  us."  In 
the  words  of  a  note  to  the  first  paper,  with  the  initials  O.  Y.,  but 
which  it  is  easy  to  recognize  as  the  work  of  Mr.  Charles  him 
self  without  the  plush  :  "  He  who  looketh  from  a  tower  sees 
more  of  the  battle  than  the  knights  and  captains  engaged  in 
it  ;  and,  in  like  manner,  he  who  stands  behind  a  fashionable 
table  knows  more  of  society  than  the  guests  who  sit  at  the 
board.  It  is  from  this  source  that  our  great  novel-writers 
have  drawn  their  experience,  retailing  the  truths  which  they 
learned.  It  is  not  impossible  that  Mr.  Yellowplush  may  con 
tinue  his  communications,  when  we  shall  be  able  to  present 
the  reader  with  the  only  authentic  picture  of  fashionable  life 
which  has  been  given  to  the  world  in  our  time."  The  idea 
was  not  carried  out  very  fully.  The  only  pictures  sketched 
by  Mr.  Yellowplush  were  the  farce  of  "  Miss  Shum's  Hus 
band  "  and  the  terrible  tragedy  of  "  Deuceace,"  neither  of 
them  exactly  "  pictures  of  fashionable  life."  We  rather  fancy 
that,  in  the  story  of  Mr.  Deuceace,  Mr.  Yellowplush  was  car 
ried  away  from  his  original  plan,  a  return  to  which  he  found  im 
possible  after  that  wonderful  medley  of  rascality,  grim  humor, 
and  unrelieved  bedevilry  of  all  kinds.  But  in  1838  he  reverted 
to  his  original  critical  tendencies,  and  demolished  all  that 
"  The  Quarterly  "  had  left  of  a  book  which  made  some  noise 
in  its  day,  called  "  A  Diary  Illustrative  of  the  Times  of  George 
the  Fourth  ;  "  and  wrote  from  his  pantry  one  of  the  "  Epistles 
to  the  Literati,"  expressing  his  views  of  Sir  Edward  Lytton's 
"  Sea  Captain,"  than  which  we  know  of  no  more  good-nat 
ured,  trenchant,  and  conclusive  piece  of  criticism.  All  the 
Yellowplush  papers  except  the  first  are  republished  in  the 
Miscellanies. 

In  1839  appeared  the  story  of  "  Catherine,"  by  Ikey  Sol 
omon.  This  story  is  little  known,  and  it  throws  us  back  upon 
one  still  less  known.  In  1832,  when  Mr.  Thackeray  was  not 


30  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

more  than  twenty-one,  "  Elisabeth  Brownrigge  :  a  Tale,"  was 
narrated  in  the  August  and  September  numbers  of  "  Fraser." 
This  tale  is  dedicated  to  the  author  of  "  Eugene  Aram,"  and 
the  author  describes  himself  as  a  young  man  who  has  for  a 
length  of  time  applied  himself  to  literature,  but  entirely  failed 
in  deriving  any  emoluments  from  his  exertions.  Depressed 
by  failure  he  sends  for  the  popular  novel  of  "  Eugene  Aram  " 
to  gain  instruction  therefrom.  He  soon  discovers  his  mis 
take  :  - 

"  From  the  frequent  perusal  of  older  works  of  imagination 
I  had  learnt  so  to  weave  the  incidents  of  my  story  as  to  inter 
est  the  feelings  of  the  reader  in  favor  of  virtue,  and  to 
increase  his  detestation  of  vice.  I  have  been  taught  by 

*  Eugene  Aram '  to   mix  vice   and  virtue  up  together  in  such 
an  inextricable   confusion  as  to  render  it  impossible  that  any 
preference  should  be  given  to  either,  or  that  the  one,  indeed, 
should  be  at  all  distinguishable  from  the  other In  tak 
ing  my  subject  from  that  walk  of  life  to  which  you  had  di 
rected  my  attention,  many  motives  conspired  to  fix  my  choice 
on  the  heroine  of  the  ensuing  tale  ;  she  is  a  classic  personage, 
—  her  name  has  been  already  '  linked  to  immortal  verse  '  by 
the   muse  of  Canning.     Besides,  it  is   extraordinary  that,  as 
you   had    commenced  a  tragedy  under  the  title  of   l  Eugene 
Aram,'  I   had   already  sketched  a  burletta  with   the  title    of 

*  Elisabeth  Brownrigge.'     I  had,  indeed,  in  my  dramatic  piece, 
been  guilty  of  an  egregious  and  unpardonable  error  :   I  had 
attempted  to  excite  the  sympathies  of  the  audience  in  favor  of 
the  murdered  apprentices,  but  your  novel  has  disabused  me  of 
so  vulgar  a  prejudice,  and,  in  my  present  version  of  her  case, 
all  the  interest  of  the  reader  and  all  the  pathetic  powers  of 
the  author  will  be  engaged  on  the  side  of  the  murderess." 

According  to  this  conception  the  tale  proceeds,  with  in 
cidents  and  even  names  taken  directly  from  the  "  Newgate 
Calendar,"  but  rivaling  "  Eugene  Aram  "  itself  in  magnificence 
of  diction,  absurdity  of  sentiment,  and  pomp  of  Greek  quota- 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  31 

tion.  The  trial  scene  and  the  speech  for  the  defense  are 
especially  well  hit  off.  If  "  Elisabeth  Brownrigge  "  was  written 
by  Thackeray,  and  the  internal  evidence  seems  to  us  strong, 
the  following  is  surprising  criticism  from  a  youth  of  twenty- 
one,  —  the  very  Byron  and  Bulwer  age  :  — 

"  I  am  inclined  to  regard  you  (the  author  of  "  Eugene 
Aram  " )  as  an  original  discoverer  in  the  world  of  literary 
enterprise,  and  to  reverence  you  as  the  father  of  a  new  '  lusus 
natures  school.'  There  is  no  other  title  by  which  your  man 
ner  could  be  so  aptly  designated.  I  am  told,  for  instance,  that 
in  a  former  work,  having  to  paint  an  adulterer,  you  described 
him  as  belonging  to  the  class  of  country  curates,  among 
whom,  perhaps,  such  a  criminal  is  not  met  with  once  in  a 
hundred  years  ;  while,  on  the  contrary,  being  in  search  of  a 
tender-hearted,  generous,  sentimental,  high-minded  hero  of 
romance,  you  turned  to  the  pages  of  the  "  Newgate  Calendar," 
and  looked  for  him  in  the  list  of  men  who  have  cut  throats  for 
money,  among  whom  a  person  in  possession  of  such  qualities 
could  never  have  been  met  with  at  all.  Wanting  a  shrewd, 
selfish,  worldly,  calculating  valet,  you  describe  him  as  an  old 
soldier,  though  he  bears  not  a  single  trait  of  the  character 
which  might  have  been  moulded  by  a  long  course  of  military 
service,  but,  on  the  contrary,  is  marked  by  all  the  dis 
tinguishing  features  of  a  bankrupt  attorney,  or  a  lame  duck 
from  the  Stock  Exchange.  Having  to  paint  a  cat,  you  endow 
her  with  the  idiosyncrasies  of  a  dog." 

At  the  end,  the  author  intimates  that  he  is  ready  to  treat 
with  any  liberal  publisher  for  a  series  of  works  in  the  same 
style,  to  be  called  "  Tales  of  the  Old  Bailey,  or  Romances  of 
Tyburn  Tree."  The  proposed  series  is  represented  only  by 
"  Catherine,"  a  longer  and  more  elaborate  effort  in  the  same 
direction.  It  is  the  narrative  of  the  misdeeds  of  Mrs.  Cath 
erine  Hayes,  —  an  allusion  to  whose  criminality  in  after  days 
brought  down  upon  the  author  of  "  Pendennis  "  an  amusing  out 
pouring  of  fury  from  Irish  patriotism,  forgetting  in  its  excite- 


32  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

ment  that  the  name  was  borne  by  a  heroine  of  the  Newgate 
Calendar,  as  well  as  by  the  accomplished  singer  whom  we  all 
regret.  The  purpose  of  "  Catherine  "  is  the  same  as  that  of 
"Elisabeth  Brownrigge," —  to  explode  the  lusus  nature? 
school ;  but  the  plan  adopted  is  slightly  different.  Things 
had  got  worse  than  they  were  in  1832.  The  public  had  called 
for  coarse  stimulants  and  had  got  them.  "Jack  Sheppard" 
had  been  acquiring  great  popularity  in  Bentley's  "  Miscel 
lany  ;  "  and  the  true  feeling  and  pathos  of  many  parts  of 
"  Oliver  Twist  "  had  been  marred  by  the  unnatural  sentimen- 
talism  of  Nancy.  Mr.  Ikey  Solomon  objected  utterly  to  these 
monstrosities  of  literature,  and  thought  the  only  cure  was  a 
touch  of  realism  ;  an  attempt  to  represent  blackguards  in 
some  measure  as  they  actually  are  :  — 

"  In  this,"  he  says,  "we  have  consulted  nature  and  history 
rather  than  the  prevailing  taste  and  the  general  manner  of 
authors.  The  amusing  novel  of  Ernest  Maltravers,  for  in 
stance,  opens  with  a  seduction  ;  but  then  it  is  performed  by 
people  of  the  strictest  virtue  on  both  sides  ;  and  there  is  so 
much  religion  and  philosophy  in  the  heart  of  the  seducer,  so 
much  tender  innocence  in  the  soul  of  the  seduced,  that  —  bless 
the  little  dears  !  —  their  very  peccadilloes  make  one  interested 
in  them  ;  and  their  naughtiness  becomes  quite  sacred,  so 
deliciously  is  it  described.  Now,  if  we  are  to  be  interested  by 
rascally  actions,  let  us  have  them  with  plain  faces,  and  let 
them  be  performed,  not  by  virtuous  philosophers,  but  by 
rascals.  Another  clever  class  of  novelists  adopt  the  contrary 
system,  and  create  interest  by  making  their  rascals  perform 
virtuous  actions.  Against  these  popular  plans  we  here  sol 
emnly  appeal.  We  say,  let  your  rogues  in  novels  act  like 
rogues,  and  your  honest  men  like  honest  men  ;  don't  let  us 
have  any  juggling  and  thimblerigging  with  virtue  and  vice,  so 
that,  at  the  end  of  three  volumes,  the  bewildered  reader  shall 
not  know  which  is  which  ;  don't  let  us  find  ourselves  kindling 
at  the  generous  qualities  of  thieves  and  sympathizing  with  the 
rascalities  of  noble  hearts.  For  our  own  part,  we  know  what 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  33 

the  public  likes,  and  have  chosen  rogues  for  our  characters,  and 
have  taken  a  story  from  the  "  Newgate  Calendar,"  which  we 
hope  to  follow  out  to  edification.  Among  the  rogues  at  least, 
we  will  have  nothing  that  shall  be  mistaken  for  virtue.  And 
if  the  British  public  (after  calling  for  three  or  four  editions) 
shall  give  up,  not  only  our  rascals,  but  the  rascals  of  all  other 
authors,  —  we  shall  be  content.  We  shall  apply  to  govern 
ment  for  a  pension,  and  think  -that  our  duty  is  done." 

Again,  further  on  in  the  same  story  :  — 

"  The  public  will  hear  of  nothing  but  rogues  ;  and  the  only 
way  in  which  poor  authors,  who  must  live,  can  act  honestly  by 
the  public  and  themselves,  is  to  paint  such  thieves  as  they 
are  ;  not  dandy,  poetical,  rose-water  thieves,  but  real  downright 
scoundrels,  leading  scoundrelly  lives,  drunken,  profligate,  dis 
solute,  low,  as  scoundrels  will  be.  They  don't  quote  Plato  like 
Eugene  Aram,  or  live  like  gentlemen,  and  sing  the  pleasantest 
ballads  in  the  world,  like  jolly  Dick  Turpin ;  or  prate  eternally 
about  rb  Ka\6v,  like  that  precious  canting  Maltravers,  whom 
we  all  of  us  have  read  about  and  pitied  ;  or  die  whitewashed 
saints,  like  poor  Biss  Dadsy,  in  "  Oliver  Twist."  No,  my  dear 
madam,  you  and  your  daughters  have  no  right  to  admire  and 
sympathize  with  any  such  persons,  fictitious  or  real  ;  you 
ought  to  be  made  cordially  to  detest,  scorn,  loathe,  abhor,  and 
abominate  all  people  of  this  kidney.  Men  of  genius,  like  those 
whose  works  we  have  above  alluded  to,  have  no  business  to 
make  these  characters  interesting  or  agreeable,  to  be  feeding 
your  morbid  fancies,  or  indulging  their  own  with  such  mon 
strous  food.  For  our  parts,  young  ladies,  we  beg  you  to  bottle 
up  your  tears,  and  not  waste  a  single  drop  of  them  on  any  one 
of  the  heroes  or  heroines  in  this  history ;  they  are  all  rascals, 
every  soul  of  them,  and  behave  '  as  sich.'  Keep  your  sym 
pathy  for  those  who  deserve  it ;  don't  carry  it,  for  preference, 
to  the  Old  Bailey,  and  grow  maudlin  over  the  company  as 
sembled  there." 

Neither  of  these  tales,  though  it  is  very  curious  to  look  back 
3 


34  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    TPIACKERAY. 

at  them  now,  can  be  considered  quite  successful.  And  the 
reason  of  this  is  not  hard  to  find.  It  was  impossible  that  they 
could  be  attractive  as  stories  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
humor  was  not  broad  enough  to  command  attention  for  itself. 
They  were  neither  sufficiently  interesting  nor  sufficiently 
amusing.  They  are  caricatures  without  the  element  of  carica 
ture.  In  "  Elisabeth,"  we  have  little  but  the  story  of  a  crime 
committed  by  a  criminal  actuated  by  motives  and  overflowing 
with  sentiments  of  the  Eugene  Aram  type.  "  Catherine  "  is 
more  ambitious.  In  it  an  attempt  is  made  to  construct  a  story, 
—  to  delineate  character.  The  rival  loves  of  Mr.  Bullock  and 
Mr.  Hayes,  and  the  adventures  of  the  latter  on  his  marriage- 
day,  show,  to  some  extent,  the  future  novelist ;  while  in  the 
pictures  of  the  manners  of  the  times,  slight  though  they  are,  in 
the  characters  of  Corporal  Brock  and  Cornet  Galgenstein,  and 
M.  PAbbe*  O'Flaherty,  we  can  trace,  or  at  least  we  now  fancy 
we  can  trace,  the  author  of  "  Barry  Lyndon  "  and  "  Henry  Es 
mond."  Catherine  herself,  in  her  gradual  progress  from  the 
village  jilt  to  a  murderess,  is  the  most  striking  thing  in  the 
story,  and  is  a  sketch  of  remarkable  power.  But  nothing 
could  make  a  story  interesting  which  consists  of  little  more 
than  the  seduction  of  a  girl,  the  intrigues  of  a  mistress,  the 
discontent  of  a  wife  growing  into  hatred  and  ending  in  murder. 
At  the  close,  indeed,  the  writer  resorts  to  the  true  way  of 
making  such  a  jeu  d^  esprit  attractive,  —  burlesque.  He  con 
cludes,  though  too  late  altogether  to  save  the  piece,  in  a  blaze 
of  theatrical  blue-fire  ;  and  it  was  this  idea  of  burlesque  or 
extravagant  caricature  which  led  to  the  perfected  successes  of 
George  de  Barnwell  and  Codlingsby.  In  a  literary  point  of 
view,  it  is  well  worth  while  to  go  back  upon  those  early  efforts  ; 
and  we  have  dwelt  upon  them  the  more  willingly  that  their 
purpose  and  the  literary  doctrine  they  contend  for  would  be 
well  remembered  at  this  very  time.  We  have  given  up  writing 
about  discovered  criminals,  only  to  write  more  about  criminals 
not  yet  found  out ;  the  lusus  nature?  school  has  given  place  to 
the  sensational ;  the  literature  of  the  "  Newgate  Calendar  "  has 
been  supplanted  by  the  literature  of  the  detective  officer, — a 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  35 

style  rather  the  worse  and  decidedly  the  more  stupid  of  the 
two.  The  republication  of  "  Catherine  "  might  be  a  useful,  and 
would  be  a  not  unpleasing  specific  in  the  present  diseased 
state  of  literary  taste.  We  have  said  that  the  hand  of  the 
master  is  traceable  in  the  characters  of  this  tale.  We  have 
also  a  good  example  of  what  was  always  a  marked  peculiarity, 
both  in  his  narrative  writing  and  in  his  representations  of 
composite  natures,  what  some  one  has  called  his  "  sudden 
pathos,"  an  effect  of  natural  and  unexpected  contrast  always 
deeply  poetical  in  feeling,  such  as  the  love  of  Barry  Lyndon 
for  his  son,  the  association  of  a  murderess  eying  her  victim, 
with  images  of  beauty  and  happiness  and  peace.  We  quote 
the  passage,  although,  as  is  always  the  case  with  the  best 
things  of  the  best  writers,  it  surfers  greatly  by  separation  from 
the  context,  the  force  of  the  contrast  being  almost  entirely 
lost :  — 

"  Mrs.  Hayes  sat  up  in  the  bed  sternly  regarding  her  hus 
band.  There  is,  to  be  sure,  a  strong  magnetic  influence  in 
wakeful  eyes  so  examining  a  sleeping  person  ;  do  not  you,  as 
a  boy,  remember  waking  of  bright  summer  mornings  and  find 
ing  your  mother  looking  over  you  ?  had  not  the  gaze  of  her 
tender  eyes  stolen  into  your  senses  long  before  you  woke,  and 
cast  over  your  slumbering  spirit  a  sweet  spell  of  peace,  and 
love,  and  fresh-springing  joy  ?  " 

In  1840  the  "  Shabby  Genteel  Story  "  appeared  in  "  Fraser," 
which  broke  off  sorrowfully  enough,  as  we  are  told,  "  at  a  sad 
period  of  the  writer's  own  life,"  to  be  afterwards  taken  up  in 
"  The  Adventures  of  Philip."  The  story  is  not  a  pleasant 
one,  nor  can  we  read  it  without  pain,  although  we  know  that 
the  after  fortunes  of  the  Little  Sister  are  not  altogether  un 
happy.  But  it  shows  clear  indications  of  growing  power  and 
range  ;  Brandon,  Tufthunt,  the  Gann  family,  and  Lord  Cinq- 
bars,  can  fairly  claim  the  dignity  of  ancestors.  The  "  Great 
Hoggarty  Diamond"  came  in  1841.  This  tale  was  always,  we 
are  informed  in  the  preface  to  a  separate  edition  in  1849,  a 
great  favorite  with  the  author,  —  a  judgment,  however,  in 


36  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

which  at  first  he  stood  almost  alone.  It  was  refused  by  one 
magazine  before  it  found  a  place  in  "  Fraser  ;  "  and  when  it 
did  appear  it  was  little  esteemed,  or,  indeed,  noticed  in  any 
way.  The  late  Mr.  John  Sterling  took  a  different  view,  and 
wrote  Mr.  Thackeray  a  letter  which  "  at  that  time  gave  me 
great  comfort  and  pleasure."  Few  will  now  venture  to  ex 
press  doubts  of  Mr.  Sterling's  discernment.  But  in  reality  we 
suspect  that  this  story  is  not  very  popular.  It  is  said  to  want 
humor  and  power ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  in  its  beauty  of 
pathos  and  tenderness  of  feeling,  quite  indescribable,  it 
reaches  a  higher  point  of  art  than  any  of  the  minor  tales  ; 
and  these  qualities  have  gained  for  it  admirers  very  enthusi 
astic  if  not  numerous.  "  Fraser  "  for  June  of  the  same  year 
has  a  most  enjoyable  paper  called  "  Memorials  of  Gormandiz 
ing,"  in  which  occurs  the  well-known  adaptation  of  the  "  Per- 
sicos  Odi,"  —  "  Dear  Lucy,  you  know  what  my  wish  is  ;  "  a 
paper  better  than  anything  in  the  "  Original,"  better  because 
simpler  than  Hayward's  "  Art  of  Dining,"  and  which  should 
certainly  be  restored  to  a  dinner-eating  world.  To  say  nothing 
of  its  quiet  humor  and  comical  earnestness,  it  has  a  real  practi 
cal  value.  It  would  be  invaluable  to  all  the  hungry  Britons  in 
Paris  who  lower  our  national  character,  and,  what  is  a  far 
greater  calamity,  demoralize  even  French  cooks,  by  their  well- 
meant  but  ignorant  endeavors  to  dine.  There  is  a  description 
of  a  dinner  at  the  Cafe  Foy  altogether  inimitable  ;  so  graphic 
that  the  reader  almost  fancies  himself  in  the  actual  enjoyment 
of  the  felicity  depicted.  Several  of  the  Fitz-Boodle  papers, 
which  appeared  in  1842-43,  are  omitted  in  the  Miscellanies. 
But  in  spite  of  the  judgment  of  the  author  himself  we  venture 
to  think  that  Mr.  Fitz-Boodle's  love  experiences  as  recorded 
in  "  Miss  Lowe  "  (October,  1842),  "  Dorothea  "  (January,  1843), 
and  "  Ottilia  "  (February,  1843),  are  not  unworthy  of  a  place 
beside  the  "  Ravenswing,"  and  should  be  preserved  as  a  warn 
ing  to  all  fervent  young  men.  And  during  these  hard-working 
years  we  have  also  a  paper  on  "  Dickens  in  France,"  contain 
ing  an  amazing  description  of  Nicholas  Nickleby,  as  translated 
and  adapted  (bless  thee,  Bottom,  thou  art  translated  indeed  !) 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  37 

to  the  Parisian  stage,  followed  by  a  hearty  defense  of  Boz 
against  the  criticism  of  Jules  Janin  ;  and  "  Bluebeard's  Ghost," 
in  its  idea  —  that  of  carrying  on  a  well-known  story  beyond 
its  proper  end  —  the  forerunner  of  Rebecca  and  Rowena. 
"  Little  Travels  "  is  the  title  of  two  papers,  in  May  and  Octo 
ber,  1844,  —  sketches  from  Belgium,  closely  resembling,  cer 
tainly  not  inferior,  to  the  roundabout  paper  called  a  "  Week's 
Holiday ;  "  and  our  enumeration  of  his  contributions  to 
"Fraser"  closes  with  the  incomparable  "Barry  Lyndon." 
"  The  Hoggarty  Diamond  "  is  better  and  purer,  and  must 
therefore  rank  higher  ;  but  "  Barry  Lyndon  "  in  its  own  line 
stands,  we  think,  unrivaled  ;  immeasurably  superior,  if  we 
must  have  comparative  criticism,  to  "  Count  Fathom "  ;  su 
perior  even  to  the  history  of  "Jonathan  Wild."  It  seems  to 
us  to  equal  the  sarcasm  and  remorseless  irony  of  Fielding's 
masterpiece,  with  a  wider  range  and  a  more  lively  interest. 

Mr.  Thackeray's  connection  with  "  Punch "  began  very 
early  in  the  history  of  that  periodical,  and  he  continued  a  con 
stant  contributor  at  least  up  to  1850.  The  acquisition  was  an 
invaluable  one  to  "  Mr.  Punch."  Without  undue  disparage 
ment  of  that  august  dignitary,  it  may  now  be  said  that  at  first 
he  was  too  exclusively  metropolitan  in  his  tone,  too  much  de 
voted  to  "  natural  histories  "  of  medical  students  and  London 
idlers,  — in  fact,  somewhat  Cockney.  Mr.  Thackeray  at  once 
stamped  it  with  a  different  tone  ;  made  its  satire  universal, 
adapted  its  fun  to  the  appreciation  of  cultivated  men.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  connection  with  "  Punch  "  must  have  been  of 
the  utmost  value  to  Mr.  Thackeray.  He  had  the  widest  range, 
could  write  without  restraint,  and  without  the  finish  and  com 
pleteness  necessary  in  more  formal  publications.  The  unre 
strained  practice  in  "  Punch,"  besides  the  improvement  in 
style  and  in  modes  of  thought  which  practice  always  gives, 
probably  had  no  small  share  in  teaching  him  wherein  his  real 
strength  lay.  For  it  is  worthy  of  notice  in  Mr.  Thackeray's 
literary  career  that  this  knowledge  did  not  come  easily  or 
soon,  but  only  after  hard  work  and  much  experience.  His 
early  writings  both  in  "  Fraser "  and  "  Punch  "  were  as  if 


38  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

groping.  In  these  periodicals  his  happier  efforts  come  last, 
and  after  many  preludes,  —  some  of  them  broken  off  abruptly. 
"  Catherine  "  is  lost  in  "  George  de  Barnwell "  ;  "  Yellow- 
plush  "  and  "  Fitz-Boodle  "  are  the  preambles  to  "  Barry  Lyn 
don  "  and  "  The  Hoggarty  Diamond " ;  Punch's  "  Conti 
nental  Tour"  and  the  "Wanderings  of  the  Fat  Contributor" 
close  untimely,  and  are  succeeded  by  the  "  Snob  Papers  "  and 
the  kindly  wisdom  of  the  elder  Brown.  Fame,  indeed,  was 
not  now  far  off ;  but  ere  it  could  be  reached  there  remained 
yet  repeated  effort  and  frequent  disappointment.  With  pecul 
iar  pleasure  we  now  recall  the  fact  that  these  weary  days  of 
struggle  and  obscurity  were  cheered  in  no  inconsiderable  de 
gree  by  the  citizens  of  Edinburgh. 

There  happened  to  be  placed  in  the  window  of  an  Edin 
burgh  jeweler  a  silver  statuette  of  "  Mr.  Punch,"  with  his 
dress  en  rigueur, — his  comfortable  and  tidy  paunch,  with  all 
its  buttons  ;  his  hunch  ;  his  knee-breeches,  with  their  ties  ; 
his  compact  little  legs,  one  foot  a  little  forward  ;  and  the  in 
trepid  and  honest,  kindly  little  fellow  firmly  set  on  his  pins, 
with  his  customary  look  of  up  to  and  good  for  anything.  In 
his  hand  was  his  weapon,  a  pen  ;  his  skull  was  an  inkhorn, 
and  his  cap  its  lid.  A  passer-by  —  who  had  long  been  grate 
ful  to  our  author,  as  to  a  dear  unknown  and  enriching  friend, 
for  his  writings  in  "  Fraser  "  and  in  "  Punch,"  and  had  longed 
for  some  way  of  reaching  him,  and  telling  him  how  his  work 
was  relished  and  valued  —  bethought  himself  of  sending  this 
inkstand  to  Mr.  Thackeray.  He  went  in,  and  asked  its  price. 
"  Ten  guineas,  sir."  He  said  to  himself,  "  There  are  many 
who  feel  as  I  do ;  why  should  n't  we  send  him  up  to  him  ? 
I  '11  get  eighty  several  half-crowns,  and  that  will  do  it "  (he 
had  ascertained  that  there  would  be  discount  for  ready  money). 
With  the  help  of  a  friend,  who  says  he  awoke  to  Thackeray, 
and  divined  his  great  future,  when  he  came,  one  evening,  in 
"  Fraser"  for  May,  1844,  on  the  word  kinopium^  the  half- 

1  Here  is  the  passage.  It  is  from  Little  Travels  and  Roadside  Sketches,  Why 
are  they  not  republished?  We  must  have  his  Of>era  Omnia.  He  is  on  the  top  of 
the  Richmond  omnibus.  "  If  I  were  a  great  prince,  and  rode  outside  of  coaches  (as 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  39 

crowns  were  soon  forthcoming,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  remember, 
that  in  the  "  octogint  "  are  the  names  of  Lord  Jeffrey  and  Sir 
William  Hamilton,  who  gave  their  half-crowns  with  the  heart 
iest  good  will.  A  short  note  was  written  telling  the  story. 
The  little  man  in  silver  was  duly  packed,  and  sent  with  the 
following  inscription  round  the  base  :  — 

GULIELMO  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

ARMA   VIRUMQUE 
GRATI    NECNON   GRAT^   EDINENSES 

LXXX. 
D.       D.       D. 

To  this  the  following  reply  was  made  :  — 

"  13  YOUNG  STREET,  KENSINGTON  SQUARJE,  May  u,  1848. 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  The  arms  and  the  man  arrived  in  safety 
yesterday,  and  I  am  glad  to  know  the  names  of  two  of  the 
eighty  Edinburgh  friends  who  have  taken  such  a  kind  method 
of  showing  their  good-will  towards  me.  If  you  are  grati  I  am 
gratior.  Such  tokens  of  regard  &  sympathy  are  very  precious 
to  a  writer  like  myself,  who  have  some  difficulty  still  in  making 
people  understand  what  you  have  been  good  enough  to  find 
out  in  Edinburgh,  that  under  the  mask  satirical  there  walks 

I  should  if  I  were  a  great  prince),  I  would,  whether  I  smoked  or  not,  have  a  case  of 
the  best  Havannas  in  my  pocket,  not  for  my  own  smoking,  but  to  give  them  to  the 
snobs  on  the  coach,  who  smoke  the  vilest  cheroots.  They  poison  the  air  with  the 
odor  of  their  filthy  weeds.  A  man  at  all  easy  in  circumstances  would  spare  himself 
much  annoyance  by  taking  the  above  simple  precaution. 

"  A  gentleman  sitting  behind  me  tapped  me  on  the  back,  and  asked  for  a  light. 
He  was  a  footman  or  rather  valet.  He  had  no  livery,  but  the  three  friends  who  ac 
companied  him  were  tall  men  in  pepper-and-salt  undress  jackets,  with  a  duke's  cor 
onet  on  their  buttons. 

"  After  tapping  me  on  the  back,  and  when  he  had  finished  his  cheroot,  the  gentle 
man  produced  another  wind  instrument,  which  he  called  a  'kinopium,'a  sort  of 
trumpet,  on  which  he  showed  a  great  inclination  to  play.  He  began  puffing  out  of  the 
kinopium  an  abominable  air,  which  he  said  was  the  '  Duke's  March.'  It  was  played 
by  the  particular  request  of  the  pepper-and-salt  gentry. 

"  The  noise  was  so  abominable,  that  even  the  coachman  objected  and  said  it  was 
not  allowed  to  play  on  his  bus.  '  Very  well,'  said  the  valet,  '  ive^re  only  of  the  Duke 
of  B »j  establishment,  THAT'S  ALL.'  " 


40  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

about  a  sentimental  gentleman  who  means  not  unkindly  to  any 
mortal  person.  I  can  see  exactly  the  same  expression  under 
the  vizard  of  my  little  friend  in  silver,  and  hope  some  day  to 
shake  the  whole  octogint  by  the  hand  gratos  &  gratas,  and 
thank  them  for  their  friendliness  and  regard.  I  think  I  had 
best  say  no  more  on  the  subject,  lest  I  should  be  tempted  into 
some  enthusiastic  writing  of  wh  I  am  afraid.  I  assure  you 
these  tokens  of  what  I  can't  help  acknowledging  as  popularity 
—  make  me  humble  as  well  as  grateful  —  and  make  me  feel  an 
almost  awful  sense  of  the  responsibility  w11  falls  upon  a  man 
in  such  a  station.  Is  it  deserved  or  undeserved  ?  Who  is  this 
that  sets  up  to  preach  to  mankind,  and  to  laugh  at  many  things 
wh  men  reverence  ?  I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  tell  the  truth 
always,  &  to  see  it  aright,  according  to  the  eyes  wh  God 
Almighty  gives  me.  And  if,  in  the  exercise  of  my  calling  I 
get  friends,  and  find  encouragement  and  sympathy,  I  need  not 
tell  you  how  much  I  feel  and  am  thankful  for  this  support. 
Indeed  I  can't  reply  lightly  upon  this  subject  or  feel  otherwise 
than  very  grave  when  people  begin  to  praise  me  as  you  do. 
Wishing  you  and  my  Edinburgh  friends  all  health  and  happi 
ness  believe  me  my  dear  Sir  most  faithfully  yours 

"  W.  M,  THACKERAY." 

How  like  the  man  is  this  gentle  and  serious  letter,  written 
these  long  years  ago  !  He  tells  us  frankly  his  "  calling  :  "  he 
is  a  preacher  to  mankind.  He  "laughs,"  he  does  not  sneer. 
He  asks  home  questions  at  himself  as  well  as  the  world : 
"Who  is  this  ?  "  Then  his  feeling  "not  otherwise  than  very 
grave  "  when  people  begin  to  praise,  is  true  conscientiousness. 
This  servant  of  his  Master  hoped  to  be  able  "  to  tell  the  truth 
always,  and  to  see  it  aright,  according  to  the  eyes  which  God 
Almighty  gives  me."  His  picture  by  himself  will  be  received 
as  correct  now,  "  a  sentimental  gentleman,  meaning  not  un 
kindly  to  any  mortal  person,"  —  sentimental  in  its  good  old 
sense,  and  a  gentleman  in  heart  and  speech.  And  that  little 
touch  about  enthusiastic  writing,  proving  all  the  more  that  the 
enthusiasm  itself  was  there. 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  41 

Of  his  work  in  "  Punch/'  the  "  Ballads  of  Pleaceman  X,"  the 
"Snob  Papers,"  "  Jeames'  Diary,"  the  "  Travels  and  Sketches 
in  London,"  a  "  Little  Dinner  at  Timmins',"  are  now  familiar 
to  most  readers.  But  besides  these  he  wrote  much  which  has 
found  no  place  in  the  Miscellanies.  M.  de  la  Pluche  dis 
coursed  touching  many  matters  other  than  his  own  rise  and 
fall.  "  Our  Fat  Contributor  "  wandered  over  the  face  of  the 
earth  gaining  and  imparting  much  wisdom  and  experience,  if 
little  information  ;  Dr.  Solomon  Pacifico  "prosed  "  on  various 
things  besides  the  "  pleasures  of  being  a  Fogy ;  "  and  even 
two  of  the  "  Novels  by  Eminent  Hands,"  "  Crinoline  "  and 
"  Stars  and  Stripes,"  have  been  left  to  forgetfulness.  "  Mrs. 
Tickletoby's  Lectures  on  the  History  of  England,"  in  Vol.  III., 
are  especially  good  reading.  Had  they  been  completed,  they 
would  have  formed  a  valuable  contribution  to  the  philosophy  of 
history.  His  contributions  to  "  Punch  "  became  less  frequent 
about  1850,  but  the  connection  was  not  entirely  broken,  off  till 
much  later  ;  we  remember,  in  1854,  the  "  Letters  from  the 
Seat  of  War,  by  our  own  Bashi-Bazouk,"  who  was,  in  fact, 
Major  Gahagan  again,  always  foremost  in  his  country's  cause. 
To  the  last,  as  Mr.  Punch  has  himself  informed  us,  he  con 
tinued  to  be  an  adviser  and  warm  friend,  and  was  a  constant 
guest  at  the  weekly  symposia. 

In  addition  to  all  this  work  for  periodicals,  Mr.  Thackeray 
had  ventured  on  various  independent  publications.  We  have 
already  alluded  to  "  Flore  et  Zephyr,"  his  first  attempt.  In 
1840,  he  again  tried  fortune  with  "  The  Paris  Sketch-Book," 
which  is  at  least  remarkable  for  a  dedication  possessing  the 
quite  peculiar  merit  of  expressing  real  feeling.  It  is  addressed 
to  M.  Aretz,  Tailor,  27  Rue  Richelieu,  Paris  ;  and  we  quote  it 
the  more  readily  that,  owing  to  the  failure  of  these  volumes  to 
attract  public  attention,  the  rare  virtues  of  that  gentleman 
have  been  less  widely  celebrated  than  they  deserve  :  — 

"  SIR,  —  It  becomes  every  man  in  his  station  to  acknowledge 
and  praise  virtue  wheresoever  he  may  find  it,  and  to  point  it 
out  for  the  admiration  and  example  of  his  fellow-men. 


42  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

"  Some  months  since,  when  you  presented  to  the  writer  of 
these  pages  a  small  account  for  coats  and  pantaloons  manu 
factured  by  you,  and  when  you  were  met  by  a  statement  from 
your  debtor  that  an  immediate  settlement  of  your  bill  would 
be  extremely  inconvenient  to  him,  your  reply  was,  '  Mon  dieu, 
sir,  let  not  that  annoy  you  ;  if  you  want  money,  as  a  gentle 
man  often  does  in  a  strange  country,  I  have  a  thousand-franc 
note  at  my  house,  which  is  quite  at  your  service.'  History  or 
experience,  sir,  makes  us  acquainted  with  so  few  actions  that 
can  be  compared  to  yours,  —  an  offer  like  this  from  a  stranger 
and  a  tailor  seems  to  me  so  astonishing,  —  that  you  must  par 
don  me  for  making  your  virtue  public,  and  acquainting  the 
English  nation  with  your  merit  and  your  name.  Let  me  add, 
sir,  that  you  live  on  the  first  floor,  that  your  cloths  and  fit  are 
excellent,  and  your  charges  moderate  and  just ;  and,  as  a 
humble  tribute  of  my  admiration,  permit  me  to  lay  these  vol 
umes  at  your  feet.  Your  obliged  faithful  servant, 

"  M.  A.  TlTMARSH." 

Some  of  the  papers  in  these  two  volumes  were  reprints,  as 
"  Little  Poinsinet "  and  "  Cartouche,"  from  "  Fraser  "  for  1839  ; 
"MaryAncel,"  from  "The  New  Monthly  "for  1839;  others 
appeared  then  for  the  first  time.  They  are,  it  must  be  con 
fessed,  of  unequal  merit.  "A  Caution  to  Travellers"  is  a 
swindling  business,  afterwards  narrated  in  "  Pendennis,"  by 
Amory  or  Altamont  as  among  his  own  respectable  adventures  ; 
"  Mary  Ancel  "  and  "  The  Painter's  Bargain  "  are  amusing 
stories  ;  while  a  "  Gambler's  Death  "  is  a  tale  quite  awful  in 
the  every-day  reality  of  its  horror.  There  is  much  forcible 
criticism  on  the  French  school  of  painting  and  of  novel  writ 
ing,  and  two  papers  especially  good,  called  "  Caricatures  and 
Lithography  in  Paris,"  and  "  Meditations  at  Versailles,"  the 
former  of  which  gives  a  picture  of  Parisian  manners  and  feel 
ing  in  the  Orleans  times  in  no  way  calculated  to  make  us 
desire  those  days  back  again  ;  the  latter  an  expression  of  the 
thoughts  called  up  by  the  splendor  of  Versailles  and  the 
beauty  of  the  Petit  Trianon,  in  its  truth,  sarcasm,  and  half- 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER..  43 

melancholy,  worthy  of  his  best  days.  All  these  the  public, 
we  think,  would  gladly  welcome  in  a  more  accessible  form. 
Of  the  rest  of  the  "  Sketch-Book "  the  same  can  hardly  be 
said,  and  yet  we  should  ourselves  much  regret  never  to  have 
seen,  for  example,  the  four  graceful  imitations  of  Beranger. 

The  appreciative  and  acquisitive  tendencies  of  our  Yankee 
friends  forced,  we  are  told,  independent  authorship  on  Lord 
Macaulay  and  Sir  James  Stephen.  We  owe  to  the  same  cause 
the  publication  of  the  "  Comic  Tales  and  Sketches  "  in  1841  ; 
Mr.  Yellowplush's  memoirs  having  been  more  than  once  re 
printed  in  America  before  that  date.  The  memoirs  were 
accompanied  with  "  The  Fatal  Boots  "  (from  the  "  Comic 
Almanack  ") ;  the  "  Bedford  Row  Conspiracy,"  and  the  Rem 
iniscences  of  that  astonishing  Major  Gahagan  (both  from  the 
"  New  Monthly  Magazine,"  1838-1840,  a  periodical  then  in 
great  glory,  with  Hood,  Marryatt,  Jerrold,  and  Laman  Blan- 
chard  among  its  contributors) ;  all  now  so  known  and  so  ap 
preciated  that  the  failure  of  this  third  effort  seems  altogether 
unaccountable.  In  1843,  however,  the  "  Irish  Sketch-Book  " 
was,  we  believe,  tolerably  successful ;  and  in  1846  the  "  Jour 
ney  from  Cornhill  to  Grand  Cairo  "  was  still  more  so  ;  in 
which  year  also  "  Vanity  Fair "  began  the  career  which  has 
given  him  his  place  and  name  in  English  literature. 

We  have  gone  into  these  details  concerning  Mr.  Thack 
eray's  early  literary  life,  not  only  because  they  seem  to  us 
interesting  and  instructive  in  themselves  ;  not  only  because  we 
think  his  severe  judgment  rejecting  so  many  of  his  former  ef 
forts  should  in  several  instances  be  reversed ;  but  because 
they  give  us  much  aid  in  arriving  at  a  true  estimate  of  his 
genius.  He  began  literature  as  a  profession  early  in  life, — 
about  the  age  of  twenty-five,  —  but  even  then  he  was,  as  he 
says  of  Addison,  "  full  and  ripe."  Yet  it  was  long  before  he 
attained  the  measure  of  his  strength,  or  discovered  the  true 
bent  of  his  powers.  His  was  no  sudden  leap  into  fame.  On 
the  contrary,  it  was  by  slow  degrees,  and  after  many  and  vain 
endeavors  that  he  attained  to  anything  like  success.  Were  it 
only  to  show  how  hard  these  endeavors  were,  the  above  retro- 


44  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

spect  would  be  well  worth  while  ;  not  that  the  retrospect  is 
anything  like  exhaustive.  In  addition  to  all  we  have  men 
tioned,  he  wrote  for  the  "  Westminster,"  for  the  "  Examiner," 
and  the  "  Times  "  ;  was  connected  with  the  "  Constitutional," 
and  also,  it  is  said,  with  the  "  Torch  "  and  the  "  Parthenon,"  — 
these  last  three  being  papers  which  enjoyed  a  brief  existence, 
No  man  ever  more  decidedly  refuted  the  silly  notion  which  dis 
associates  genius  from  labor.  His  industry  must  have  been 
unremitting,  for  he  worked  slowly,  rarely  retouching,  writing 
always  with  great  thought  and  habitual  correctness  of  expres 
sion.  His  writing  would  of  itself  show  this  ;  always  neat  and 
plain  ;  capable  of  great  beauty  and  minuteness.  He  used  to  say 
that  if  all  trades  failed,  he  would  earn  sixpences  by  writing  the 
Lord's  Prayer  and  the  Creed  (not  the  Athanasian)  in  the  size 
of  one.  He  considered  and  practiced  caligraphy  as  one  of 
the  fine  arts,  as  did  Person  and  Dr.  Thomas  Young.  He  was 
continually  catching  new  ideas  from  passing  things,  and  seems 
frequently  to  have  carried  his  work  in  his  pocket,  and  when  a 
thought,  or  a  turn,  or  a  word  struck  him,  it  was  at  once  re 
corded.  In  the  fullness  of  his  experience,  he  was  well  pleased 
when  he  wrote  six  pages  of  "  Esmond  "  in  a  day ;  and  he 
always  worked  in  the  day,  not  at  night.  He  never  threw  away 
his  ideas  ;  if  at  any  time  they  passed  unheeded,  or  were  care 
lessly  expressed,  he  repeats  them,  or  works  them  up  more 
tellingly.  In  these  earlier  writings  we  often  stumble  upon  the 
germ  of  an  idea,  or  a  story,  or  a  character  with  which  his 
greater  works  have  made  us  already  familiar  ;  thus  the  swin 
dling  scenes  during  the  sad  days  of  Becky's  decline  and  fall, 
and  the  Baden  sketches  in  the  "  Newcomes,"  the  Deuceaces, 
and  Punters,  and  Loders,  are  all  in  the  "  Yellowplush  Papers  " 
and  the  "  Paris  Sketch-Book  ; "  the  University  pictures  of 
"  Pendennis  "  are  sketched,  though  slightly,  in  the  "  Shabby- 
Genteel  Story "  ;  the  anecdote  of  the  child  whose  admirer 
of  seven  will  learn  that  she  has  left  town  "  from  the  news 
papers,"  is  transferred  from  the  "  Book  of  Snobs  "  to  Ethel 
Newcome  ;  another  child,  in  a  different  rank  of  life,  whose 
acquisition  of  a  penny  gains  for  her  half  a  dozen  sudden  fol- 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  45 

lowers  and  friends,  appears,  we  think,  three  times  ;  "  Canute," 
neglected  in  "  Punch,"  is  incorporated  in  "  Rebecca  and 
Rowena."  And  his  names,  on  which  he  bestowed  no  ordinary 
care,  and  which  have  a  felicity  almost  deserving  an  article  to 
themselves,  are  repeated  again  and  again.  He  had  been  ten 
years  engaged  in  literary  work  before  the  conception  of 
"  Vanity  Fair  "  grew  up.  Fortunately  for  him  it  was  declined 
by  at  least  one  magazine,  and,  as  we  can  well  believe,  not 
without  much  anxiety  and  many  misgivings  he  sent  it  out  to 
the  world  alone.  Its  progress  was  at  first  slow  ;  but  we  can 
not  think  its  success  was  ever  doubtful.  A  friendly  notice  in 
the  "  Edinburgh,"  when  eleven  numbers  had  appeared,  did 
something,  the  book  itself  did  the  rest ;  and  before  "  Vanity 
Fair  "  was  completed,  the  reputation  of  its  author  was  estab 
lished. 

Mr.  Thackeray's  later  literary  life  is  familiar  to  all.  It  cer- 
tanliy  was  not  a  life  of  idleness.  "  Vanity  Fair,"  "  Pendennis," 
"  Esmond,"  "  The  Newcomes,"  "  The  Virginians,"  "  Philip  "  ; 
the  Lectures  on  the  "  Humorists  "  and  the  "  Georges  "  ;  and 
that  wonderful  series  of  Christmas  stories,  "  Mrs.  Perkins's 
Ball,"  "  Our  Street,"  "  Dr.  Birch,"  "  Rebecca  and  Rowena," 
and  "  The  Rose  and  the  Ring,"  represent  no  small  labor  on 
the  part  of  the  writer,  no  small  pleasure  and  improvement 
on  the  part  of  multitudes  of  readers.  For  the  sake  of  the 
"  Cornhill  Magazine  "  he  reverted  to  the  editorial  avocations 
of  his  former  days,  happily  with  a  very  different  result  both 
on  the  fortunes  of  the  periodical  and  his  own,  but,  we  should 
think,  with  nearly  as  much  discomfort  to  himself.  The  public, 
however,  were  the  gainers,  if  only  they  owe  to  this  editorship 
the  possession  of  "  Lovel  the  Widower."  We  believe  that 
"  Lovel "  was  written  for  the  stage,  and  was  refused  by  the 
management  of  the  Olympic  about  the  year  1854.  Doubtless 
the  decision  was  wise,  and  "  Lovel  "  might  have  failed  as  a 
comedy.  But  as  a  tale  it  is  quite  unique, — full  of  humor, 
and  curious  experience  of  life,  and  insight  ;  with  a  condensed 
vigor,  and  grotesque  effects  and  situations  which  betray  its 
dramatic  origin.  The  tone  of  many  parts  of  the  book,  par- 


46  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

ticularly  the  description  of  the  emotions  of  a  disappointed 
lover,  shows  the  full  maturity  of  the  author's  powers  ;  but 
there  is  a  daring  and  freshness  about  other  parts  of  it  which 
would  lead  us  to  refer  the  dramatic  sketch  even  to  an  earlier 
date  than  1854.  This  imperfect  sketch  of  his  literary  labors 
may  be  closed,  not  inappropriately,  with  the  description  which 
his  "  faithful  old  Gold  Pen  "  gives  us  of  the  various  tasks  he 
set  it  to  :  — 

"  Since  he  my  faithful  service  did  engage 
To  follow  him  through  his  queer  pilgrimage, 
I  've  drawn  and  written  many  a  line  and  page. 

"  Caricatures  I  scribbled  have,  and  rhymes, 
And  dinner-cards,  and  picture  pantomimes, 
And  merry  little  children's  books  at  times. 

"  I've  writ  the  foolish  fancy  of  his  brain  ; 
The  aimless  jest  that,  striking,  hath  caused  pain  ; 
The  idle  word  that  he  'd  wish  back  again. 


"  I  've  helped  him  to  pen  many  a  line  for  bread ; 
To  joke,  with  sorrow  aching  in  his  head  ; 
And  make  your  laughter  when  his  own  heart  bled. 

'  Feasts  that  were  ate  a  thousand  days  ago, 
Biddings  to  wine  that  long  hath  ceased  to  flow, 
Gay  meetings  with  good  fellows  long  laid  low  ; 

'  Summons  to  bridal,  banquet,  burial,  ball, 
Tradesman's  polite  reminders  of  his  small 
Account  due  Christmas  last,  —  I  've  answered  all. 

"  Poor  Diddler's  tenth  petition  for  a  half- 
Guinea  ;  Miss  Bunyan's  for  an  authograph  ; 
So  I  refuse,  accept,  lament,  or  laugh. 

"  Condole,  congratulate,  invite,  praise,  scoff, 
Day  after  day  still  dipping  in  my  trough, 
And  scribbling  pages  after  pages  off. 


"  Nor  pass  the  words  as  idle  phrases  by ; 
Stranger  !  I  never  writ  a  flattery, 
Nor  signed  the  page  that  registered  a  lie.** 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  47 

"  En  realit£,"  says  the  writer  of  an  interesting  notice  in 
"  Le  Temps,"  "  1'auteur  de  '  Vanity  Fair '  (la  Foire  aux  van- 
itis)  est  un  satiriste,  tin  moraliste,  un  humoriste,  auquel  il  a 
manque,  pour  etre  tout-a-fait  grand,  d'etre  un  artiste.  Je  dis 
tout-a-fait  grand  ;  car  s'il  est  douteux  que,  comme  humoriste, 
on  le  puisse  comparer  soit  a  Lamb,  soit  a  Sterne,  il  est  bien 
certain,  du  moins,  que  comme  satiriste,  il  ne  connait  pas  de 
superieurs,  pas  meme  Dryden,  pas  meme  Swift,  pas  meme 
Pope.  Et  ce  qui  le  distingue  d'eux,  ce  qui  1'e'leve  au  dessus 
d'eux,  ce  qui  fait  de  lui  un  gdnie  essentiellement  original, 
c'est  que  sa  colere,  pour  qui  est  capable  d'en  penetrer  le 
secret,  n'est  au  fond  que  la  reaction  d'une  nature  tendre, 
furieuse  d'avoir  ete  desappointee."  Beyond  doubt  the  French 
critic  is  right  in  holding  Thackeray's  special  powers  to  have 
been  those  of  a  satirist  or  humorist.  We  shall  form  but  a 
very  inadequate  conception  of  his  genius  if  we  look  at  him 
exclusively,  or  even  chiefly,  as  a  novelist.  His  gifts  were  not 
those  of  a  teller  of  stories.  He  made  up  a  story  in  which  his 
characters  played  their  various  parts,  because  the  requirement 
of  interest  is  at  the  present  day  imperative,  and  because 
stories  are  well  paid  for,  and  also  because  to  do  this  was  to  a 
certain  extent  an  amusement  to  himself  ;  but  it  was  often,  we 
suspect,  a  great  worry  and  puzzle  to  him,  and  never  resulted 
in  any  marked  success.  It  is  not  so  much  that  he  is  a  bad  \N 
constructor  of  a  plot,  as  that  his  stories  have  no  plot  at  all.  I 
We  say  nothing  of  such  masterpieces  of  constructive  art  as  /  j 
Tom  Jones  ;  he  is  far  frord  reaching  even  the  careless  power/ 
of  the  stories  of  Scott.  "'N'one  of  his  novels  end  with  the 
orthodox  marriage  of  hero  and  heroine,  except  "  Pendennis," 
which  might  just  as  well  have  ended  without  it.  The  stereo 
typed  matrimonial  wind-up  in  novels  can  of  course  very  easily 
be  made  game  of  ;  but  it  has  a  rational  meaning.  When  a 
man  gets  a  wife  and  a  certain  number  of  hundreds  a  year,  he 
grows  stout,  and  his  adventures  are  over.  Hence  novelists 
naturally  take  this  as  the  crisis  in  a  man's  life  to  which  all 
that  has  gone  before  leads  up.  But  for  Mr.  Thackeray's  pur 
poses  a  man  or  woman  is  as  good  after  marriage  as  before  it, 


48  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

—  indeed,  rather  better.  To  some  extent  this  is  intentional ;  a 
character,  as  he  says  somewhere,  is  too  valuable  a  property  to 
be  easily  parted  with.  Besides,  he  is  not  quite  persuaded  that 
marriage  concludes  all  that  is  interesting  in  the  life  of  a  man  : 
"  As  the  hero  and  heroine  pass  the  matrimonial  barrier,  the 
novelist  generally  drops  the  curtain,  as  if  the  drama  were  over 
then,  the  doubts  and  struggles  of  life  ended  ;  as  if,  once  landed 
in  the  marriage  country,  all  were  green  and  pleasant  there, 
and  wife  and  husband  had  nothing  but  to  link  each  other's 
arms  together,  and  wander  gently  downwards  towards  old  age 
in  happy  and  perfect  fruition."  But  he  demurs  to  this  view  ; 
and  as  he  did  not  look  on  a  man's  early  life  as  merely  an  in 
troduction  to  matrimony,  so  neither  did  he  regard  that  event 
as  a  final  conclusion.  Rejecting,  then,  this  natural  and  ordi 
nary  catastrophe,  he  makes  no  effort  to  provide  another.  His 
stories  stop,  but  they  don't  come  to  an  end.  There  seems  no 
reason  why  they  should  pot  go  on  further,  or  why  they  should 
not  have  ceased  beforeTy^Nor  does  this  want  of  finish  result 
from  weariness  on  the  part  of  the  writer,  or  from  that  fear 
of  weariness  on  the  part  of  readers  which  Mr.  Jedediah 
Cleishbotham  expresses  to  Miss  Martha  Buskbody  :  "  Really, 
Madam,  you  must  be  aware  that  every  volume  of  a  narrative 
turns  less  and  less  interesting  as  the  author  draws  to  a  con 
clusion  ;  just  like  your  tea,  which,  though  excellent  hyson,  is 
necessarily  weaker  and  more  insipid  in  the  last  cup.  Now,  as  I 
think  the  one  is  by  no  means  improved  by  the  luscious  lump 
of  half-dissolved  sugar  usually  found  at  the  bottom  of  it,  so  I 
am  of  opinion  that  a  history,  growing  already  vapid,  is  but 
dully  crutched  up  by  a  detail  of  circumstances  which  every 
reader  must  have  anticipated,  even  though  the  author  exhaust 
on  them  every  flowery  epithet  in  the  language."  It  arises 
from  the  want  of  a  plot,  from  the  want  often  of  any  hero  or 
heroine  round  whom  a  plot  can  centre.  Most  novelists  know 
how  to  let  the  life  out  towards  the  end,  so  that  the  story  dies 
quite  naturally,  having  been  wound  up  for  so  long.  But  his 
airy  nothings,  if  once  life  is  breathed  into  them,  and  they  are 
made  to  speak  and  act,  and  love  and  hate,  will  not  die  ;  on  the 


THACKERAY^S  LITERARY  CAREER.  49 

contrary,  they  grow  in  force  and  vitality  under  our  very  eye  ; 
the  curtain  comes  sheer  down  upon  them  when  they  are  at 
their  best.  Hence  his  trick  of  re-introducing  his  characters 
in  subsequent  works,  as  fresh  and  life-like  as  ever.  He  does 
not  indeed  carry  this  so  far  as  Dumas,  whose  characters  are 
traced  with  edifying  minuteness  of  detail  from  boyhood  to  the 
grave  ;  Balzac  or  our  own  Trollope  afford,  perhaps,  a  closer 
comparison,  although  neither  of  these  writers  —  certainly  not 
Mr.  Trollope  —  rivals  Thackeray  in  the  skill  with  which  such 
reappearances  are  managed.  In  the  way  of  delineation  of 
character  we  know  of  few  things  more  striking  in  its  consist 
ency  and  truth  than  Beatrix  Esmond  grown  into  the  Baroness 
Bernstein  :  the  attempt  was  hazardous,  the  success  complete. 
Yet  this  deficiency  in  constructive  art  was  not  inconsistent 
with  dramatic  power  of  the  highest  order.  Curiously  enough, 
if  his  stories  for  the  most  part  end  abruptly,  they  also  for  the 
most  part  open  well.  Of  some  of  them,  as  "  Pendennis  "  and 
the  "  Newcomes,"  the  beginnings  are  peculiarly  felicitous.  But 
his  dramatic  power  is  mainly  displayed  in  his  invention  and 
representation  of  character.  In  invention  his  range  is  perhaps 
limited,  though  less  so  than  is  commonly  said.  He  has  not, 
of  course,  the  sweep  of  Scott,  and,  even  where  a  comparison 
is  fairly  open,  he  does  not  show  Scott's  creative  faculty ;  thus, 
good  as  his  high  life  below  stairs  may  be,  he  has  given  us  no 
Jenny  Dennison.  He  does  not  attempt  artisan  life  like  George 
Eliot,  nor,  like  other  writers  of  the  day,  affect  rural  simplicity, 
or  delineate  provincial  peculiarities  (the  Mulligan  and  Costi- 
gan  are  national),  or  represent  special  views  or  opinions.  But 
he  does  none  of  these  things,  —  not  so  much  because  his 
range  is  limited  as  because  his  art  is  universal.  There  are 
many  phases  of  human  life  on  which  he  has  not  touched  ;  few 
developments  of  human  nature.  He  has  caught  those  traits 
which  are  common  to  all  mankind,  peer  and  artisan  alike,  and 
he  may  safely  omit  minor  points  of  distinction.  It  is  a  higher 
art  to  draw  men,  than  to  draw  noblemen  or  workingmen.  If 
the  specimen  of  our  nature  be  brought  before  us,  it  matters 
little  whether  it  be  dressed  in  a  lace  coat  or  a  fustian  jacket. 
4 


50  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

Among  novelists  he  stands,  in  this  particular,  hardly  second 
to  Scott.  His  pages  are  filled  with  those  touches  of  nature 
which  make  the  whole  world  kin.  Almost  every  passion  and 
emotion  of  the  heart  of  man  finds  a  place  in  his  pictures. 
These  pictures  are  taken  mainly  from  the  upper  and  middle 
classes  of  society,  with  an  occasional  excursion  into  Bohemia, 
sometimes  even  into  depths  beyond  that  pleasant  land  of 
lawlessness.  In  variety,  truth,  and  consistency,  they  are 
unrivaled.  They  are  not  caricatures,  they  are  not  men  of 
humors  ;  they  are  the  men  and  women  whom  we  daily  meet ; 
they  are,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word,  representative  ;  and 
yet  they  are  drawn  so  sharply  and  finely  that  we  never  could 
mistake  or  confound  them.  Pendennis,  Clive  Newcome, 
Philip,  are  all  placed  in  circumstances  very  much  alike,  and 
yet  they  are  discriminated  throughout  by  delicate  and  certain 
touches,  which  we  hardly  perceive  even  while  we  feel  their 
effect.  Only  one  English  writer  of  fiction  can  be  compared  to 
Mr.  Thackeray  in  this  power  of  distinguishing  ordinary  char 
acters,  —  the  authoress  of  "  Pride  and  Prejudice."  But  with 
this  power  he  combines,  in  a  very  singular  manner,  the 
power  of  seizing  humors,  or  peculiarities,  when  it  so  pleases 
him.  Jos.  Sedley,  Charles  Honeyman,  Fred  Bayham,  Major 
Pendennis,  are  so  marked  as  to  be  fairly  classed  as  men  of 
humors  ;  and  in  what  a  masterly  way  the  nature  in  each  is 
caught  and  held  firm  throughout!  In  national  peculiarities  he 
is  especially  happy.  The  Irish  he  knows  well  :  the  French, 
perhaps^  still  better.  How  wonderfully  clever  is  the  sketch  of 
u  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots  "  and  the  blustering  Gascon,  and  the 
rest  of  her  disreputable  court  at  Baden  !  And  what  can  those 
who  object  to  Thackeray's  women  say  of  that  gentle  lady 
Madame  de  Florae,  —  a  sketch  of  ideal'  beauty,  with  her  early, 
never-forgotten  sorrow,  her  pure,  holy  resignation  ?  To  her 
inimitable  son  no  words  can  do  justice.  The  French-English 
of  his  speech  would  make  the  fortune  of  any  ordinary  novel. 
It  is  as  unique,  and  of  a  more  delicate  humor,  than  the 
orthography  of  Jeames.  Perhaps  more  remarkable  than  even 
his  invention  is  the  fidelity  with  which  the  conception  of  his 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  51 

characters  is  preserved.  This  never  fails.  They  seem  to  act, 
as  it  were,  of  themselves.  The  author  having  once  projected 
them,  appears  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  them.  They 
act  somehow  according  to  their  own  natures,  unprompted  by 
him,  and  beyond  his  control.  He  tells  us  this  himself  in  one  of 
those  delightful  and  most  characteristic  Roundabout  Papers, 
which  are  far  too  much  and  too  generally  undervalued  :  "  I 
have  been  surprised  at  the  observations  made  by  some  of  my 
characters.  It  seems  as  if  an  occult  power  was  moving  the 
pen.  The  personage  does  or  says  something,  and  I  ask,  How 
the  dickens  did  he  come  to  think  of  that  ?  .  .  .  .  We  spake 
anon  of  the  inflated  style  of  some  writers.  What  also  if  there 
is  an  afflated  style  ;  when  a  writer  is  like  a  Pythoness,  or  her 
oracle  tripod,  and  mighty  words,  words  which  he  cannot  help, 
come  blowing,  and  bellowing,  and  whistling,  and  moaning 
through  the  speaking  pipes  of  his  bodily  organ  ?  "  Take  one 
of  his  most  subtle  sketches,  —  though  it  is  but  a  sketch,  — 
Elizabeth,  in  "  Lovel  the  Widower."  The  woman  has  a  char 
acter,  and  a  strong  one  ;  she  shows  it,  and  acts  up  to  it  ;  but 
it  is  as  great  a  puzzle  to  us  as  the  character  of  Hamlet ;  the 
author  himself  does  not  understand  it.  This  is,  of  course, 
art ;  and  it  is  the  highest  perfection  of  art ;  it  is  the  art  of 
Shakespeare  ;  and  hence  it  is  that  Thackeray's  novels  are 
interesting  irrespective  of  the  plot,  or  story,  or  whatever  we 
choose  to  call  it.  His  characters  come  often  without  much 
purpose  :  they  go  often  without  much  reason  ;  but  they  are 
always  welcome,  and  for  the  most  part  we  wish  them  well. 
Dumas  makes  up  for  the  want  of  a  plot  by  wild  incident  and 
spasmodic  writing  ;  Thackeray  makes  us  forget  a  like  defi 
ciency  by  the  far  higher  means  of  true  conceptions,  and  con 
sistent  delineations  of  human  nature.  "  Esmond,"  alone  of  all 
his  more  important  fictions  is  artistically  constructed.  The 
marriage  indeed  of  Esmond  and  Lady  Castlewood  marks  no 
crisis  in  their  lives  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  might  have  happened 
at  any  time,  and  makes  little  change  in  their  relations  ;  but 
the  work  derives  completeness  from  the  skill  with  which  the 
events  of  the  time  are  connected  with  the  fortunes  of  the  chief 


52  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

actors  in  the  story,  —  the  historical  plot  leading  up  to  the 
catastrophe  of  Beatrix,  the  failure  of  the  conspiracy,  and  the 
exile  of  the  conspirators.  In  "  Esmond,"  too,  Thackeray's 
truth  to  nature  is  especially  conspicuous.  In  all  his  books  t 
dialogue  is  surprising  in  its  naturalness,  in  its  direct  bearing 
on  the  subject  in  hand.  Never  before,  we  think,  in  fiction  did 
characters  so  uniformly  speak  exactly  like  the  men  and  women 
of  real  life.  In  "  Esmond"  —  owing  to  the  distance  of  the 
scene  —  this  rare  excellence  was  not  easy  of  attainment,  yet  it 
has  been  attained.  Every  one  not  only  acts,  but  speaks  in  ac 
cordance  certainly  with  the  ways  of  the  time,  but  always  like  a 
rational  human  being  ;  there  is  no  trace  of  that  unnaturalness 
which  offends  us  even  in  Scott's  historical  novels,  and  which 
substitutes  for  intelligible  converse  long  harangues  in  pom 
pous  diction,  garnished  with  strange  oaths,  —  a  style  of  com 
municating  their  ideas  never  adopted,  we  may  be  very  sure, 
by  any  mortals  upon  this  earth.  Add  to  these  artistic  excel 
lences  a  tenderness  of  feeling  and  a  beauty  of  style  which 
even  Thackeray  has  not  elsewhere  equaled,  and  we  come  to 
understand  why  the  best  critics  look  on  "  Esmond  "  as  his 
master-piece. 

Nor,  in  speaking  of  Thackeray  as  a  novelist,  should  we  for 
get  to  mention  —  though  but  in  a  word  —  his  command  of  the 
element  of  tragedy.  The  parting  of  George  Osborne  with 
Amelia,  the  stern  grief  of  old  Osborne  for  the  loss  of  his  son, 
the  later  life  of  Beatrix  Esmond,  the  death  of  Colonel  New- 
come,  are  in  their  various  styles  perfect,  and  remarkable  for 
nothing  more  than  for  the  good  taste  which  controls  and  sub 
dues  them  all. 

But,  as  we  said  before,  to  criticise  Mr.  Thackeray  as  a  nov 
elist  is  to  criticise  what  was  in  him  only  an  accident.  He 
wrote  stories,  because  to  do  so  was  the  mode  :  his  stories  are 
natural  and  naturally  sustained,  because  he  could  do  nothing 
otherwise  than  naturally  ;  but  to  be  a  teller  of  stories  was  not 
his  vocation.  His  great  object  in  writing  was  to  express  him 
self,  —  his  notions  of  life,  all  the  complications  and  variations 
which  can  be  played  by  a  master  on  this  one  everlasting  theme. 


THACKERAY^  S  LITERARY  CAREER.  53 

Composite  human  nature  as  it  is,  that  sins  and  suffers,  enjoys 
and  does  virtuously,  that  was  "  the  main  haunt  and  region  of 
his  song."  To  estimate  him  fairly,  we  must  look  at  him  as 
taking  this  wider  range  ;  must  consider  him  as  a  humorist, 
using  the  word  as  he  used  it  himself.  "  The  humorous  writer 
professes  to  awaken  and  direct  your  love,  your  pity,  your  kind 
ness  ;  your  scorn  for  untruth,  pretension,  imposture  ;  your 
tenderness  for  the  weak,  the  poor,  the  oppressed,  the  unhappy. 
To  the  best  of  his  means  and  ability,  he  comments  on  all  the 
ordinary  actions  and  passions  of  life  almost.  He  takes  upon 
himself  to  be  the  week-day  preacher,  so  to  speak.  Accord 
ingly,  as  he  finds  and  speaks  and  feels  the  truth  best,  we  re 
gard  him,  esteem  him,  —  sometimes  love  him."  Adopting  this 
point  of  view,  and  applying  this  standard,  it  seems  to  us  that 
no  one  of  the  great  humorists  of  whom  he  has  spoken  is  de 
serving  equally  with  himself  of  our  respect,  esteem,  and  love  ; 
respect  for  intellectual  power,  placing  him  on  a  level  even 
with  Swift  and  Pope  ;  esteem  for  manliness  as  thorough  as 
the  manliness  of  Fielding,  and  rectitude  as  unsullied  as  the 
rectitude  of  Addison ;  love  for  a  nature  as  kindly  as  that  of 
Steele.  Few  will  deny  the  keen  insight,  the  passion  for  truth  of 
the  week-day  preacher  we  have  lost ;  few  will  now  deny  the 
kindliness  of  his  disposition,  but  many  will  contend  that  the 
kindliness  was  too  much  restrained  ;  that  the  passion  for  truth 
was  allowed  to  degenerate  into  a  love  of  detecting  hidden 
faults.  The  sermons  on  women  have  been  objected  to  with 
especial  vehemence  and  especial  want  of  reason.  No  one 
who  has  read  Mr.  Brown's  letters  to  his  nephew,  —  next  to  the 
Snob  Papers  and  Sydney  Smith's  Lectures,  the  best  modern 
work  on  moral  philosophy,  —  will  deny  that  Mr.  Thackeray 
can  at  least  appreciate  good  women,  and  describe  them  :  — 

"  Sir,  I  do  not  mean  to  tell  you  that  there  are  no  women  in 
the  world,  vulgar  and  ill-humored,  rancorous  and  narrow- 
minded,  mean  schemers,  son-in-law  hunters,  slaves  of  fashion, 
hypocrites  ;  but  I  do  respect,  admire,  and  almost  worship  good 
women  ;  and  I  think  there  is  a  very  fair  number  of  such  to  be 


54  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

found  in -this  world,  and  I  have  no  doubt,  in  every  educated 
Englishman's  circle  of  society,  whether  he  finds  that  circle  in 
palaces  in  Belgravia  and  May  Fair,  in  snug  little  suburban 
villas,  in  ancient  comfortable  old  Bloomsbury,  or  in  back  par 
lors  behind  the  shop.  It  has  been  my  fortune  to  meet  with 
excellent  English  ladies  in  every  one  of  these  places,  —  wives 
graceful  and  affectionate,  matrons  tender  and  good,  daughters 
happy  and  pure-minded,  and  I  urge  the  society  of  such  to  you, 
because  I  defy  you  to  think  evil  in  their  company.  Walk  into 
the  drawing-room  of  Lady  Z.,  that  great  lady ;  look  at  her 
charming  face,  and  hear  her  voice.  You  know  that  she  can't 
but  be  good,  with  such  a  face  and  such  a  voice.  She  is  one 
of  those  fortunate  beings  on  whom  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to 
bestow  all  sorts  of  its  most  precious  gifts  and  richest  worldly 
favors.  With  what  grace  she  receives  you  ;  with  what  a  frank 
kindness  and  natural  sweetness  and  dignity !  Her  looks,  her 
motions,  her  words,  her  thoughts,  all  seem  to  be  beautiful  and 
•  harmonious  quite.  See  her  with  her  children,  what  woman 
can  be  more  simple  and  loving  ?  After  you  have  talked  to  her 
for  a  while,  you  very  likely  find  that  she  is  ten  times  as  well 
read  as  you  are  :  she  has  a  hundred  accomplishments  which 
she  is  not  in  the  least  anxious  to  show  off,  and  makes  no  more 
account  of  them  than  of  her  diamonds,  or  of  the  splendor 
round  about  her,  —  to  all  of  which  she  is  born,  and  has  a 
happy,  admirable  claim  of  nature  and  possession,  —  admirable 
and  happy  for  her  and  for  us  too  ;  for  is  it  not  a  happiness  for 
us  to  admire  her  ?  Does  anybody  grudge  her  excellence  to 
that  paragon  ?  Sir,  we  may  be  thankful  to  be  admitted  to 
contemplate  such  consummate  goodness  and  beauty :  and  as, 
in  looking  at  a  fine  landscape  or  a  fine  work  of  art  every  gen 
erous  heart  must  be  delighted  and  improved,  and  ought  to  feel 
grateful  afterwards,  so  one  may  feel  charmed  and  thankful  for 
having  the  opportunity  of  knowing  an  almost  perfect  woman. 
Madam,  if  the  gout  and  the  custom  of  the  world  permitted,  I 
would  kneel  down  and  kiss  the  hem  of  your  ladyship's  robe. 
To  see  your  gracious  face  is  a  comfort  —  to  see  you  walk  to 
your  carriage  is  a  holiday.  Drive  her  faithfully,  O  thou  silver- 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  55 

wigged  coachman !  drive  to  all  sorts  of  splendors  and  honors 
and  royal  festivals.  And  for  us,  let  us  be  glad  that  we  should 
have  the  privilege  to  admire  her. 

"  Now,  transport  yourself  in  spirit,  my  good  Bob,  into  an 
other  drawing-room.  There  sits  an  old  lady  of  more  than 
fourscore  years,  serene  and  kind,  and  as  beautiful  in  her  age 
now,  as  in  her  youth,  when  History  toasted  her.  What  has 
she  not  seen,  and  is  she  not  ready  to  tell  ?  All  the  fame  and 
wit,  all  the  rank  and  beauty,  of  more  than  half  a  century,  have 
passed  through  those  rooms  where  you  have  the  honor  of  mak 
ing  your  best  bow.  She  is  as  simple  now  as  if  she  had  never 
had  any  flattery  to  dazzle  her  :  she  is  never  tired  of  being 
pleased  and  being  kind.  Can  that  have  been  anything  but  a 
good  life  which  after  more  than  eighty  years  of  it  are  spent,  is 
so  calm  ?  Could  she  look  to  the  end  of  it  so  cheerfully,  if  its 
long  course  had  not  been  pure  ?  Respect  her,  I  say,  for  be 
ing  so  happy,  now  that  she  is  old.  We  do  not  know  what 
goodness  and  charity,  what  affections,  what  trials,  may  have 
gone  to  make  that  charming  sweetness  of  temper  and  complete 
that  perfect  manner.  But  if  we  do  not  admire  and  reverence 
such  an  old  age  as  that,  and  get  good  from  contemplating  it, 
what  are  we  to  respect  and  admire. 

"  Or  shall  we  walk  through  the  shop  (while  N.  is  recom 
mending  a  tall  copy  to  an  amateur,  or  folding  up  a  twopenny- 
worth  of  letter-paper,  and  bowing  to  a  poor  customer  in  a 
jacket  and  apron  with  just  as  much  respectful  gravity  as  he 
would  show  while  waiting  upon  a  duke),  and  see  Mrs.  N.  play 
ing  with  the  child  in  the  back  parlor  until  N.  shall  come  in  to 
tea  ?  They  drink  tea  at  five  o'clock  ;  and  are  actually  as  well- 
bred  as  those  gentlefolks  who  dine  three  hours  later.  Or  will 
you  please  to  step  into  Mrs  J.'s  lodgings,  who  is  waiting,  and 
at  work,  until  her  husband  comes  home  from  Chambers  ?  She 
blushes  and  puts  the  work  away  on  hearing  the  knock,  but 
when  she  sees  who  the  visitor  is,  she  takes  it  with  a  smile 
from  behind  the  sofa  cushion,  and  behold,  it  is  one  of  J.'s 
waist-coats  on  which  she  is  sewing  buttons.  She  might  have 
been  a  countess  blazing  in  diamonds,  had  Fate  so  willed  it, 


56  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

and  the  higher  her  station  the  more  she  would  have  adorned 
it.  But  she  looks  as  charming  while  plying  her  needle  as  the 
great  lady  in  the  palace  whose  equal  she  is  —  in  beauty,  in 
goodness,  in  high-bred  grace  and  simplicity  ;  at  least,  I  can't 
fancy  her  better,  or  any  peeress  being  more  than  her  peer." 

But  then  he  is  accused  of  not  having  represented  this.  "  It 
is  said,"  to  quote  a  friendly  critic  in  the  "  Edinburgh  Review  " 
for  1848,  "that  having  with  great  skill  put  together  a  creature 
of  which  the  principal  elements  are  indiscriminating  affection, 
ill-requited  devotion,  ignorant  partiality,  a  weak  will  and  a 
narrow  intellect,  he  calls  on  us  to  worship  his  poor  idol  as  the 
type  of  female  excellence.  This  is  true."  Feminine  critics- 
enforce  similar  charges  yet  more  vehemently.  Thus,  Miss 
Bronte  says  :  "  As  usual,  he  is  unjust  to  women,  quite  un 
just.  There  is  hardly  any  punishment  he  does  not  deserve 
for  making  Lady  Castlewood  peep  through  a  keyhole,  listen  at 
a  door,  and  be  jealous  of  a  boy  and  a  milkmaid."  Mrs. 
Jameson  criticises  him  more  elaborately  :  "  No  woman  resents 
his  Rebecca, — inimitable  Becky!  No  woman  but  feels  and 
acknowledges  with  a  shiver  the  completeness  of  that  wonder 
ful  and  finished  artistic  creation  ;  but  every  woman  resents 

the  selfish,  inane  Amelia Laura  in  '  Pendennis  '  is  a 

yet  more  fatal  mistake.  She  is  drawn  with  every  generous 
feeling,  every  good  gift.  We  do  not  complain  that  she  loves 
that  poor  creature  Pendennis,  for  she  loved  him  in  her  child 
hood.  She  grew  up  with  that  love  in  her  heart ;  it  came  be 
tween  her  and  the  perception  of  his  faults  ;  it  is  a  necessity 
indivisible  from  her  nature.  Hallowed,  through  its  constancy, 
therein  alone  would  lie  its  best  excuse,  its  beauty  and  its 
truth.  But  Laura,  faithless  to  that  first  affection  ;  Laura 
waked  up  to  the  appreciation  of  a  far  more  manly  and  noble 
nature,  in  love  with  Warrington,  and  then  going  back  to  Pen 
dennis,  and  marrying  him  !  Such  infirmity  might  be  true  of 
some  women,  but  not  of  such  a  woman  as  Laura ;  we  resent 
the  inconsistency,  the  indelicacy  of  the  portrait.  And  then 
Lady  Castlewood,  —  so  evidently  a  favorite  of  the  author, 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  57 

what  shall  we  say  of  her  ?  The  virtuous  woman  par  excel 
lence,  who  '  never  sins  and  never  forgives ' ;  who  never  re 
sents,  nor  relents,  nor  repents  ;  the  mother  who  is  the  rival  of 
her  daughter  ;  the  mother,  who  for  years  is  the  confidante  of 
a  man's  delirious  passion  for  her  own  child,  and  then  consoles 
him  by  marrying  him  herself !  O  Mr.  Thackeray !  this  will 
never  do  !  Such  women  may  exist,  but  to  hold  them  up  as 
examples  of  excellence,  and  fit  objects  of  our  best  sympathies, 
is  a  fault,  and  proves  a  low  standard  in  ethics  and  in  art." 

But  all  these  criticisms,  even  if  sound,  go  to  this  only,  that 
Mr.  Thackeray's  representations  of  women  are  unjust  :  they 
are  confined  solely  to  his  novels.  Now,  if  the  view  we  have 
taken  of  Mr.  Thackeray's  genius  be  the  true  one,  such  a  limi 
tation  is  unfair.  He  is  not  to  be  judged  only  by  his  novels  as 
a  representer  of  character,  he  must  be  judged  also  by  all  his 
writings  together  as  a  describer  and  analyzer  of  character.  In 
the  next  place,  the  said  criticisms  are  based  upon  wonderfully 
hasty  generalizations.  Miss  Bronte  knew  that  she  would  not 
have  listened  at  a  keyhole,  and  she  jumps  at  once  to  the  con 
clusion  that  neither  would  Lady  Castlewood.  But  surely  the 
character  of  that  lady  is  throughout  represented  as  marred  by 
many  feminine  weaknesses  falling  little  short  of  unamiability. 
Is  the  existence  of  a  woman  greedy  of  affection,  jealous,  and 
unforgiving,  an  impossibility  ?  Her  early  love  for  Esmond 
we  cannot  quite  approve  ;  her  later  marriage  with  him  we 
heartily  disapprove  ;  but  neither  of  these  things  is  the  fault 
of  the  writer.  With  such  a  woman  as  Lady  Castlewood,  de 
prived  of  her  husband's  affection,  the  growth  of  an  attachment 
towards  her  dependent  into  a  warmer  feeling,  was  a  matter  of 
extreme  probability  ;  and  her  subsequent  marriage  to  Esmond, 
affectionate,  somewhat  weak,  and  above  all,  disappointed  else 
where,  was,  in  their  respective  relations,  a  mere  certainty. 
Not  to  have  married  them  would  have  been  a  mistake  in  art. 
Thus,  when  a  friend  remonstrated  with  him  for  having  made 
Esmond  "  marry  his  mother-in-law,"  he  replied,  "  /  did  n't 
make  him  do  it ;  they  did  it  themselves."  But  as  to  Lady 
Castlewood's  being  a  favorite  with  the  author,  which  is  the 


58  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

gravamen  of  the  charge,  that  is  a  pure  assumption  on  the  part 
of  Mrs.  Jameson.  We  confess  to  having  always  received,  in 
reading  the  book,  a  clear  impression  to  the  contrary.  Laura, 
again,  we  do  not  admire  vehemently  ;  but  we  cannot  regard 
her  returning  to  her  first  love,  after  a  transient  attachment  to 
another,  as  utterly  unnatural.  Indeed,  we  think  it  the  very 
thing  a  girl  of  her  somewhat  commonplace  stamp  of  character 
would  certainly  have  done.  She  never  is  much  in  love  with 
Pendennis  either  first  or  last,  but  she  marries  him  neverthe 
less.  She  might  have  loved  Warrington  had  the  Fates  per 
mitted  it,  very  differently  ;  and  as  his  wife,  would  never  have 
displayed  those  airs  of  self-satisfaction  and  moral  superiority 
which  make  her  so  tediously  disagreeable.  But  all  this  fault 
finding  runs  up  into  the  grand  objection,  that  Thackeray's 
good  women  are  denied  brains  ;  that  he  preserves  an  essential 
alliance  between  moral  worth  and  stupidity  ;  and  it  is  curious 
to  see  how  women  themselves  dislike  this,  —  how,  in  their 
admiration  of  intellect,  they  admit  the  truth  of  Becky  will 
ingly  enough,  but  indignantly  deny  that  of  Amelia.  On  this 
question  Mr.  Brown  thus  expresses  himself  :  — 

"  A  set  has  been  made  against  clever  women  from  all  times. 
Take  all  Shakespeare's  heroines  :  they  all  seem  to  me  pretty 
much  the  same,  affectionate,  motherly,  tender,  that  sort  of 
thing.  Take  Scott's  ladies,  and  other  writers,  each  man  seems 
to  draw  from  one  model  :  an  exquisite  slave  is  what  we  want 
for  the  most  part,  a  humble,  flattering,  smiling,  child-loving, 
tea-making,  pianoforte-playing  being,  who  laughs  at  our  jokes 
however  old  they  may  be,  coaxes  and  wheedles  us  in  our  hu 
mors,  and  fondly  lies  to  us  through  life." 

In  the  face  of  Rosalind,  Beatrice,  and  Portia,  it  is  impos 
sible  to  concur  with  Mr.  Brown  in  his  notions  about  Shakes 
peare's  women  ;  but  otherwise  he  is  right.  Yet  it  is  but  a 
poor  defense  for  the  deficiences  of  a  man  of  genius,  that 
others  have  shown  the  like  short-comings.  And  on  Mr. 
Thackeray's  behalf  a  much  better  defense  may  be  pleaded  ; 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  59 

though  it  may  be  one  less  agreeable  to  the  sex  which  he  is 
said  to  have  maligned.  That  defense  is  a  simple  plea  of  not 
guilty  ;  a  denial  that  his  women  as  a  class,  want  intellect 
ual  power  to  a  greater  extent  than  is  consistent  with  truth. 
They  vary  between  the  extremes  of  pure  goodness  and  pure 
intellect  —  Becky  and  Amelia  —  just  as  women  do  in  real  life. 
The  moral  element  is  certainly  too  prominent  in  Amelia  ;  but 
not  more  so  than  in  Colonel  Newcome,  and  we  can't  see  any 
thing  much  amiss  in  Helen  Pendennis.  Laura,  as  Miss  Bell, 
is  clever  enough  for  any  man  ;  and,  though  she  afterwards 
becomes  exceedingly  tiresome  and  a  prig,  she  does  not  be 
come  a  fool.  And  what  man  would  be  bold  enough  to  dis 
parage  the  intellectual  powers  of  Ethel  Newcome  ?  Her 
moral  nature  is  at  first  incomplete  owing  to  a  faulty  educa 
tion  ;  but  when  this  has  been  perfected  through  sorrow, 
wherein  is  the  character  deficient  ?  Besides,  we  must  bear  in 
mind  that  virtue  in  actipn  is  undoubtedly  "  slow."  Goodness 
is  not  irTitself  entertaining,  while  ability  is  ;  and  the  novelist, 
therefore,  whose  aim  is  to  entertain,  naturally  -labors  most 
with  the  characters  possessing  the  latter,  in  which  characters 
the  reader  too  is  most  interested.  Hence  they  acquire  greater 
prominence  both  as  a  matter  of  fact  in  the  story  and  also  in 
our  minds.  Becky,  Blanche  Amory,  'Trix  are  undeniably 
more  interesting,  and  in  their  points  of  contrast  and  resem 
blance  afford  far  richer  materials  for  study  than  Amelia, 
Helen  Pendennis,  and  Laura.  But  this  is  in  the  nature  of 
things  ;  and  the  writer  must  not  be  blamed  for  it  any  more 
than  the  readers.  Taking,  however,  the  Thackerean  gallery 
as  a  whole,  we  cannot  admit  that  either  in  qualities  of  heart 
or  head  his  women  are  inferior  to  the  women  we  generally 
meet.  Perhaps  he  has  never — not  even  in  Ethel  —  com 
bined  these  qualities  in  their  fullest  perfection  ;  but  then  how 
often  do  we  find  them  so  combined  ?  It  seems  to  us  that 
Thackeray  has  drawn  women  more  carefully  and  more  truly 
than  any  novelist  in  the  language,  except  Miss  Austen  ;  and 
it  is  small  reproach  to  any  writer,  that  he  has  drawn  no  female 
character  so  evenly  good  as  Anne  Elliot  or  Elizabeth  Bennet. 


60  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

If  this  is  true  of  his  women,  we  need  not  labor  in  defense 
of  his  men.  For  surely  it  cannot  be  questioned  that  his  repre 
sentations  of  the  ruder  sex  are  true,  nay,  are  on  the  whole  an 
improvement  on  reality  ?  The  ordinary  actors  who  crowd  his 
scene  are  not  worse  than  the  people  we  meet  with  every  day ; 
his  heroes,  to  use  a  stereotyped  expression,  are  rather  better 
than  the  average  ;  while  one  such  character  as  George  War- 
rington  is  worth  a  wilderness  of  commonplace  excellence 
called  into  unnatural  life.  But  then  it  is  said  his  general  tone 
is  bitter  ;  he  settles  at  once  on  the  weak  points  of  humanity, 
and  to  lay  them  bare  is  his  congenial  occupation.  To  a  certain 
extent  this  was  his  business*  "  Dearly  beloved,"  he  says, 
"  neither  in  nor  out  of  this  pulpit  do  I  profess  to  be  bigger,  or 
cleverer,  or  wiser,  or  better  than  any  of  you."  Nevertheless 
he  was  a  preacher,  though  an  unassuming  one  ;  and  therefore 
it  lay  upon  him  to  point  out  faults,  to  correct  rather  than  to 
flatter.  Yet  it  must  be  confessed  that  his  earlier  writings  are 
sometimes  too  bitter  in  their  tone,  and  too  painful  in  their 
theme.  This  may  be  ascribed  partly  to  the  infectious  vehe 
mence  of  "  Fraser "  in  those  days,  partly  to  the  influence  of 
such  experiences  as  are  drawn  upon  in  some  parts  of  the 
"  Paris  Sketch-Book  ;  "  but,  however  accounted  for,  it  must 
be  condemned  as  an  error  in  art.  As  a  disposition  to  doubt 
and  despond  in  youth  betrays  a  narrow  intellect,  or  a  perverted 
education  ;  so  in  the  beginning  of  a  literary  career,  a  tendency 
towards  gloom  and  curious  research  after  hidden  evil  reveals 
artistic  error,  or  an  unfortunate  experience.  Both  in  morals 
and  art  these  weaknesses  are  generally  the  result  of  years  and 
sorrow  ;  and  thus  the  common  transition  is  from  the  joyous- 
ness  of  youth  to  sadness,  it  may  be  to  moroseness,  in  old  age. 
But  theirs  is  the  higher  and  truer  development,  who  reverse 
this  process,  —  who,  beginning  with  false  tastes  or  distorted 
views,  shake  these  off  as  they  advance  into  a  clearer  air,  in 
whom  knowledge  but  strengthens  the  nobler  powers  of  the 
soul,  and  whose  kindliness  and  generosity,  based  on  a  firmer 
foundation  than  the  buoyancy  of  mere  animal  life,  are  purer 
and  more  enduring.  Such,  as  it  appears  to  us,  was  the  history 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  6 1 

of  Thackeray's  genius.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  severity 
of  his  earlier  writings,  it  was  latterly  laid  aside.  In  the  "  New- 
comes  "  he  follows  the  critical  dogma  which  he  lays  down,  that 
"  fiction  has  no  business  to  exist  unless  it  be  more  beautiful 
than  reality ;  "  and  truthful  kindliness  marks  all  his  other 
writings  of  a  later  date,  from  the  letters  of  Mr.  Brown  and 
Mr.  Spec  in  "  Punch,"  down  to  the  pleasant  egotism  of  the 
"  Roundabout  Papers."  He  became  disinclined  for  severe 
writing  even  where  deserved :  "  I  have  militated  in  former 
times,  and  not  without  glory,  but  I  grow  peaceable  as  I  grow 
old."  The  only  things  towards  which  he  never  grew  peaceable 
were  pretentiousness  and  falsehood.  But  he  preferred  to 
busy  himself  with  what  was  innocent  and  brave,  to  attacking 
even  these  ;  he  forgot  the  satirist,  and  loved  rather  honestly 
to  praise  or  defend.  The  "  Roundabout  Papers  "  show  this 
on  every  page,  especially,  perhaps,  those  on  Tunbridge  Toys, 
on  Ribbons,  on  a  Joke  I  heard  from  the  late  Thomas  Hood, 
and  that  entitled  "  Nil  nisi  bonum."  The  very  last  paper  of 
all  was  an  angry  defense  of  Lord  Clyde  against  miserable  club 
gossip,  unnecessary  perhaps,  but  a  thing  one  likes  now  to 
think  that  Thackeray  felt  stirred  to  do.  "  To  be  tremblingly 
alive  to  gentle  impressions,"  says  Foster,  "  and  yet  be  able  to 
preserve,  when  occasion  requires  it,  an  immovable  heart,  even 
amidst  the  most  imperious  causes  of  subduing  emotion,  is 
perhaps  not  an  impossible  constitution  of  mind,  but  it  is  the 
utmost  and  rarest  condition  of  humanity."  These  words  do 
not  describe  the  nature  of  a  man  who  would  pay  out  of  his 
own  pocket  for  contributions  he  could  not  insert  in  the  "  Corn- 
hill  ;  "  but  if  for  heart  we  substitute  intellect,  they  will  perfectly 
describe  his  literary  genius.  He  was  always  tremblingly  alive 
to  gentle  impressions,  but  his  intellect  amidst  any  emotions 
remained  clear  and  immovable  ;  so  that  good  taste  was  never 
absent,  and  false  sentiment  never  came  near  him.  He  makes 
the  sorrows  of  Werther  the  favorite  reading  of  the  executioner 
at  Strasbourg.1 

1  Among  his  ballads  we  have   the   following  somewhat  literal  analysis  of  this 
work :  — 

"  Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter  ; 


62  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

Few  men  have  written  so  much  that  appeals  directly  to  our 
emotions,  and  yet  kept  so  entirely  aloof  from  anything  tawdry, 
from  all  falsetto.  "  If  my  tap,"  says  he,  "  is  not  genuine,  it  is 
naught,  and  no  man  should  give  himself  the  trouble  to  drink 
it."  It  was  at  all  times  thoroughly  genuine,  and  is  therefore 
everything  to  us.  Truthfulness,  in  fact,  eager  and  uncom 
promising,  was  his  main  characteristic  ;  truthfulness  not  only 
in  speech,  but,  what  is  a  far  more  uncommon  and  precious 
virtue,  truth  in  thought.  His  entire  mental  machinery  acted 
under  this  law  of  truth.  He  strove  always  to  find  and  show 
things  as  they  really  are,  —  true  nobleness  apart  from  trap 
pings,  unaffected  simplicity,  generosity  without  ostentation  ; 
confident  that  so  he  would  best  convince  every  one  that  what 
is  truly  good  pleases  most,  and  lasts  longest,  and  that  what  is 
otherwise  soon  becomes  tiresome,  and,  worst  of  all,  ridiculous. 
A  man  to  whom  it  has  been  given  consistently  to  devote  to 
such  a  purpose  the  highest  powers  of  sarcasm,  ridicule,  sin 
cere  pathos,  and,  though  sparingly  used,  of  exhortation,  must 
be  held  to  have  fulfilled  a  career  singularly  honorable  and 
useful.  To  these  noble  ends  he  was  never  unfaithful.  True, 
he  made  no  boast  of  this.  Disliking  cant  of  all  kinds,  he  made 
no  exception  in  favor  of  the  cant  of  his  own  profession. 
"What  the  deuce,"  he  writes  to  a  friend,  "  our  twopenny 

Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

"  Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 

And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 
And,  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies, 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

"  So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 

And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 
Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

"  Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 
Like  a  well-conducted  person, 
Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter." 


THACKERAY^  S  LITERARY  CAREER.  63 

reputations  get  us  at  least  twopence-halfpenny ;  and  then 
comes  nox  fabulceque  manes,  and  the  immortals  perish."  The 
straightforward  Mr.  Yellowplush  stoutly  maintains,  in  a  similar 
strain,  that  people  who  write  books  are  no  whit  better,  or 
actuated  by  more  exalted  motives,  than  their  neighbors  : 
"  Away  with  this  canting  about  great  motifs  !  Let  us  not  be 
too  prowd,  and  fansy  ourselves  marters  of  the  truth,  marters 
or  apostels.  We  are  but  tradesmen,  working  for  bread,  and 
not  for  righteousness'  sake.  Let 's  try  and  work  honestly  ; 
but  don't  let  us  be  prayting  pompisly  about  our  '  sacred  call 
ing.'  "  And  George  Warrington,  in  "  Pendennis,"  is  never 
weary  of  preaching  the  same  wholesome  doctrine.  Thackeray 
had  no  sympathy  with  swagger  of  any  kind.  His  soul  revolted 
from  it ;  he  always  talked  under  what  he  felt.  At  the  same 
time,  indifference  had  no  part  in  this  want  of  pretense.  So 
far  from  being  indifferent,  he  was  peculiarly  sensitive  to  the 
opinions  of  others  ;  too  much  so  for  his  own  happiness.  He 
hated  to  be  called  a  cynical  satirist ;  the  letter  we  have  quoted 
to  his  Edinburgh  friends  shows  how  he  valued  any  truer 
appreciation.  Mere  slander  he  could  despise  like  a  man  ;  he 
winced  under  the  false  estimates  and  injurious  imputations  too 
frequent  from  people  who  should  have  known  better.  But  he 
saw  his  profession  as  it  really  was,  and  spoke  of  it  with  his 
innate  simplicity  and  dislike  of  humbug.  And  in  this  matter, 
as  in  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life,  those  who  profess  little, 
retaining  a  decent  reserve  as  to  their  feelings  and  motives,  are 
far  more  to  be  relied  on  than  those  who  protest  loudly. 
Whether  authors  are  moved  by  love  of  fame,  or  a  necessity 
for  daily  bread,  does  not  greatly  signify.  The  world  is  not 
concerned  with  this  in  the  least  ;  it  can  only  require  that,  as 
Mr.  Yellowplush  puts  it,  they  should  "  try  to  work  honestly ;  " 
and  herein  he  never  failed.  He  never  wrote  but  in  accordance 
with  his  convictions  ;  he  spared  no  pains  that  his  convictions 
should  be  in  accordance  with  truth.  For  one  quality  we  can 
not  give  him  too  great  praise  ;  that  is  the  sense  of  the  distinc 
tion  of  right  and  of  wrong.  He  never  puts  bitter  for  sweet,  or 
sweet  for  bitter  ;  never  calls  evil  things  good,  or  good  things 


64  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

evil ;  there  is  no  haziness  or  muddle  ;  no  "  topsyturvifica- 
tions,"  like  Madame  Sand's,  in  his  moralities  :  — with  an  im 
mense  and  acute  compassion  for  all  suffering,  with  a  power  of 
going  out  of  himself,  and  into  almost  every  human  feeling,  he 
vindicates  at  all  times  the  supremacy  of  conscience,  the 
sacredness  and  clearness  of  the  law  written  in  our  hearts. 

His  keenness  of  observation  and  his  entire  truthfulness 
found  expression  in  a  style  worthy  of  them  in  its  sharpness 
and  distinctness.  The  specimens  we  have  quoted  of  his 
earlier  writings  show  that  these  qualities  marked  his  style 
from  the  first.  He  labored  to  improve  those  natural  gifts. 
He  steadily  observed  Mr.  Yellowplush's  recommendation 
touching  poetical  composition  :  "  Take  my  advise,  honrabble 
sir  —  listen  to  a  humble  footmin  :  it 's  genrally  best  in  poatry 
to  understand  puffickly  what  you  mean  yourself,  and  to  ing- 
spress  your  meaning  clearly  afterwoods  —  in  the  simpler 
words  the  better,  praps."  He  always  expressed  his  meaning 
clearly  and  in  simple  words.  But  as,  with  increasing  expe 
rience,  his  meanings  deepened  and  widened,  his  expression 
became  richer.  The  language  continued  to  the  last  simple 
and  direct,  but  it  became  more  copious,  more  appropriate, 
more  susceptible  of  rythmical  combinations  :  in  other  words, 
it  rose  to  be  the  worthy  vehicle  of  more  varied  and  more  poet 
ical  ideas.  This  strange  peculiarity  of  soberness  in  youth,  of 
fancy  coming  into  being  at  the  command  and  for  the  service 
of  the  mature  judgment,  has  marked  some  of  the  greatest 
writers.  The  words  in  which  Lord  Macaulay  has  described  it 
with  regard  to  Bacon  may  be  applied,  with  little  reservation, 
to  Thackeray :  "  He  observed  as  vigilantly,  meditated  as 
deeply,  and  judged  as  temperately,  when  he  gave  his  first  work 
to  the  world,  as  at  the  close  of  his  long  career.  But  in  elo 
quence,  in  sweetness  and  variety  of  expression,  and  in  rich 
ness  of  illustration,  his  later  writings  are  far  superior  to  those 
of  his  youth."  Confessedly  at  the  last  he  was  the  greatest 
master  of  pure  English  in  our  day.  His  style  is  never  ornate, 
on  the  contrary  is  always  marked  by  a  certain  reserve  which 
surely  betokens  thought  and  real  feeling ;  is  never  forced 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  65 

or  loaded,  only  entirely  appropriate  and  entirely  beautiful ; 
like  crystal,  at  once  clear  and  splendid.  We  quote  two  pas 
sages,  both  from  books  written  in  his  prime,  not  merely  as 
justifying  these  remarks,  but  because  they  illustrate  qualities 
of  his  mind  second  only  to  his  truthfulness,  —  his  sense  of 
beauty  and  his  sense  of  pathos.  And  yet  neither  passage  has 
any  trace  of  what  he  calls  the  "  sin  of  grandiloquence,  or  tall- 
talking."  The  first  is  the  end  of  the  "  Kickleburys  on  the 
Rhine  "  :  - 

"  The  next  morning  we  had  passed  by  the  rocks  and  towers, 
the  old  familiar  landscapes,  the  gleaming  towers  by  the  river 
side,  and  the  green  vineyards  combed  along  the  hills  ;  and 
when  I  woke  up,  it  was  at  a  great  hotel  at  Cologne,  and  it 
was  not  sunrise  yet.  Deutz  lay  opposite,  and  over  Deutz  the 
dusky  sky  was  reddened.  The  hills  were  veiled  in  the  mist 
and  the  gray.  The  gray  river  flowed  underneath  us,  the 
steamers  were  roosting  along  the  quays,  a  light  keeping  watch 
in  the  cabins  here  and  there,  and  its  reflection  quivering  in 
the  water.  As  I  look,  the  sky-line  towards  the  east  grows 
redder  and  redder.  A  long  troop  of  gray  horsemen  winds 
down  the  river  road,  and  passes  over  the  bridge  of  boats. 
You  might  take  them  for  ghosts,  those  gray  horsemen,  so 
shadowy  do  they  look  ;  but  you  hear  the  trample  of  their 
hoofs  as  they  pass  over  the  planks.  Every  minute  the  dawn 
twinkles  up  into  the  twilight ;  and  over  Deutz  the  heaven 
blushes  brighter.  The  quays  begin  to  fill  with  men  ;  the 
carts  begin  to  creak  and  rattle  ;  and  wake  the  sleeping  echoes. 
Ding,  ding,  ding,  the  steamers'  bells  begin  to  ring  ;  the  people 
on  board  to  stir  and  wake  ;  the  lights  may  be  extinguished, 
and  take  their  turn  of  sleep  ;  the  active  boats  shake  them 
selves,  and  push  out  into  the  river ;  the  great  bridge  opens, 
and  gives  them  passage  ;  the  church-bells  of  the  city  begin  to 
clink  ;  the  cavalry  trumpets  blow  from  the  opposite  bank  ;  the 
sailor  is  at  the  wheel,  the  porter  at  his  burden,  the  soldier  at 

his  musket,  and  the  priest  at  his  prayers And  lo  !  in  a 

flash  of  crimson  splendor,  with  blazing  scarlet  clouds  running 


66  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

before  his  chariot,  and  heralding  his  majestic  approach,  God's 
sun  rises  upon  the  world,  and  all  nature  wakens  and  brightens. 
O  glorious  spectacle  of  light  and  life  !  O  beatific  symbol  of 
Power,  Love,  Joy,  Beauty  !  Let  us  look  at  thee  with  humble 
wonder,  and  thankfully  acknowledge  and  adore.  What  gra 
cious  forethought  is  it,  —  what  generous  and  loving  provision, 
that  deigns  to  prepare  for  our  eyes  and  to  soothe  our  hearts 
with  such  a  splendid  morning  festival  !  For  these  magnificent 
bounties  of  Heaven  to  us,  let  us  be  thankful,  even  that  we 
can  feel  thankful  (for  thanks  surely  is  the  noblest  effort,  as  it 
is  the  greatest  delight,  of  the  gentle  soul) ;  and  so,  a  grace  for 

this  feast,  let  all  say  who  partake  of  it See  !  the  mist 

clears  off  Drachenfels,  and  it  looks  out  from  the  distance,  and 
bids  us  a  friendly  farewell." 

Our  second  quotation  describes  Esmond  at  his  mother's 
grave,  —  one  of  the  most  deeply  affecting  pieces  of  writing  in 
the  language  :  — 

"  Esmond  came  to  this  spot  in  one  sunny  evening  of  spring, 
and  saw,  amidst  a  thousand  black  crosses,  casting  their  shad 
ows  across  the  grassy  mounds,  that  particular  one  which 
marked  his  mother's  resting-place.  Many  more  of  those  poor 
creatures  that  lay  there  had  adopted  that  same  name  with 
which  sorrow  had  rebaptized  her,  and  which  fondly  seemed  to 
hint  their  individual  story  of  love  and  grief.  He  fancied  her, 
in  tears  and  darkness,  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  her  cross,  under 
which  her  cares  were  buried.  Surely  he  knelt  down,  and  said 
his  own  prayer  there,  not  in  sorrow  so  much  as  in  awe  (for 
even  his  memory  had  no  recollection  of  her),  and  in  pity  for 
the  pangs  which  the  gentle  soul  in  life  had  been  made  to 
suffer.  To  this  cross  she  brought  them ;  for  this  heavenly 
bridegroom  she  exchanged  the  husband  who  had  wooed  her, 
the  traitor  who  had  left  her.  A  thousand  such  hillocks  lay 
round  about,  the  gentle  daisies  springing  out  of  the  grass  over 
them,  and  each  bearing  its  cross  and  requicscat.  A  nun, 
veiled  in  black,  was  kneeling  hard  by,  at  a  sleeping  sister's 


THACKERAY^S  LITERARY  CAREER.  6/ 

bedside  (so  fresh  made,  that  the  spring  had  scarce  had  time  to 
spin  a  coverlid  for  it) ;  beyond  the  cemetery  walls  you  had 
glimpses  of  life  and  the  world,  and  the  spires  and  gables  of 
the  city.  A  bird  came  down  from  a  roof  opposite,  and  lit  first 
on  a  cross,  and  then  on  the  grass  below  it,  whence  it  flew 
away  presently  with  a  leaf  in  its  mouth  :  then  came  a  sound 
of  chanting,  from  the  chapel  of  the  sisters  hard  by :  others 
had  long  since  filled  the  place  which  poor  Mary  Magdalene 
once  had  there,  were  kneeling  at  the  same  stall  and  hearing 
the  same  hymns  and  prayers  in  which  her  stricken  heart  had 
found  consolation.  Might  she  sleep  in  peace,  —  might  she 
sleep  in  peace  ;  and  we,  too,  when  our  struggles  and  pains 
are  over  !  But  the  earth  is  the  Lord's  as  the  heaven  is  ;  we 
are  alike  his  creatures  here  and  yonder.  I  took  a  little  flower 
off  the  hillock  and  kissed  it,  and  went  my  way  like  the  bird 
that  had  just  lighted  on  the  cross  by  me,  back  into  the  world 
again.  Silent  receptacle  of  death  !  tranquil  depth  of  calm, 
out  of  reach  of  tempest  and  trouble.  I  felt  as  one  who  had 
been  walking  below  the  sea,  and  treading  amidst  the  bones  of 
shipwrecks." 

Looking  at  Mr.  Thackeray's  writings  as  a  whole,  he  would1 
be  more  truthfully  described  as  a  sentimentalist  than  as  a 
cynic.  Even  when  the  necessities  of  his  story  compel  him  to 
draw  bad  characters,  he  gives  them  as  much  good  as  he  can. 
We  don't  remember  in  his  novels  any  utterly  unredeemed 
scoundrel  except  Sir  Francis  Clavering.  Even  Lord  Steyne 
has  something  like  genuine  sympathy  with  Major  Pendennis's 
grief  at  the  illness  of  his  nephew.  And  if  reproof  is  the  main 
burden  of  his  discourse,  we  must  remember  that  to  reprove, 
not  to  praise,  is  the  business  of  the  preacher.  Still  further,  if 
his  reproof  appears  sometimes  unduly  severe,  we  must  remem 
ber  that  such  severity  may  spring  from  a  belief  that  better 
things  are  possible.  Here  lies  the  secret  of  Thackeray's  seem-y 
ing  bitterness.  His  nature  was,  in  the  words  of  the  critic  in 
"  Le  Temps,"  "  furieuse  d'avoir  ete  desappointee."  He  con 
demns  sternly  men  as  they  often  are,  because  he  had  a  high 


68  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

ideal  of  what  they  might  be.  The  feeling  of  this  contrast 
runs  through  all  his  writings.  "  He  could  not  have  painted 
'  Vanity  Fair '  as  he  has,  unless  Eden  had  been  shining  brightly 
before  his  eyes."  *  And  this  contrast  could  never  have  been 
left,  the  glories  of  Eden  could  never  have  been  seen,  by  the 
mere  satirist  or  by  the  misanthrope.  It  has  been  often  urged 
against  him  that  he  does  not  make  us  think  better  of  our 
fellow-men.  No,  truly.  But  he  does  what  is  far  greater  than 
this, — he  makes  us  think  worse  of  ourselves.  There  is  no 
great  necessity  that  we  should  think  well  of  other  people  ; 
there  is  the  utmost  necessity  that  we  should  know  ourselves 
in  our  every  fault  and  weakness  ;  and  such  knowledge  his 
writings  will  supply. 

In  Mr.  Hannay's  Memoir,2  which  we  have  read  with  admi 
ration  and  pleasure,  a  letter  from  Thackeray  is  quoted,  very 
illustrative  of  this  view  of  his  character  :  "  I  hate  Juvenal ;  I 
mean,  I  think  him  a  trucculent  brute,  and  I  love  Horace  better 
than  you  do,  and  rate  Churchill  much  lower  ;  and  as  for  Swift, 
you  have  n't  made  me  alter  my  opinion.  I  admire,  or  rather 
admit,  his  power  as  much  as  you  do ;  but  I  don't  admire  that 
kind  of  power  so  much  as  I  did  fifteen  years  ago,  or  twenty 
shall  we  say.  Love  is  a  higher  intellectual  exercise  than 
hatred"  We  think  the  terrible  Dean  had  love  as  well  as  hate 
strong  within  him,  and  none  the  worse  in  that  it  was  more 
special  than  general ;  "  I  like  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry,"  he 
used  to  say  ;  "  I  hate  the  race  ;  "  but  nothing  can  be  more 
characteristic  of  Thackeray  than  this  judgment.  Love  was 
the  central  necessity  of  his  understanding  as  well  as  of  his 
affections  ;  .it  was  his  fulfilling  of  the  law  ;  and  unlike  the 
Dean,  he  could  love  Tom,  and  also  like  and  pity  as  wrell  as  re 
buke  the  race. 

Mr.  Thackeray  has  not  written  any  history  formally  so  called. 
But  it  is  known  that  he  purposed  doing  so,  and  in  "  Esmond  " 

1  Essays  by  George  Brimley.  Second  edition.  Cambridge,  1860.  A  collection  of 
singularly  good  critical  papers. 

*  A  Brief  Memoir  of  the  late  Mr.  Thackeray.  By  James  Hannay,  Edinburgh, 
1864- 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  69 

and  the  "  Lectures  "  he  has  given  us  much  of  the  real  essence 
of  history.  The  "  Saturday  Review,"  however,  in  a  recent 
article,  has  announced  that  this  was  a  mistake  ;  that  history 
was  not  his  line.  Such  a  decision  is  rather  startling.  In  one 
or  two  instances  of  historical  representation,  Mr.  Thackeray 
may  have  failed.  Johnson  and  Richardson  do  not  appear  in 
the  "  Virginians  "  with  much  effect.  But  surely  in  the  great 
majority  of  instances,  he  has  been  eminently  successful. 
Horace  Walpole's  letter  in  the  "  Virginians,"  the  fictitious 
"  Spectator  "  in  "  Esmond,"  are  very  felicitous  literary  imita 
tions.  Good-natured  trooper  Steele  comforting  the  boy  in  the 
lonely  country-house  ;  Addison,  serene  and  dignified,  "  with 
ever  so  slight  a  touch  of  merum  in  his  voice  "  occasionally  ; 
Bolingbroke,  with  a  good  deal  of  merum  in  his  voice  talking 
reckless  Jacobitism  at  the  dinner  at  General  Webbe's,  are  won 
derful  portraits.  And,  though  the  estimate  of  Marlborough's 
character  may  be  disputed,  the  power  with  which  that  charac 
ter  is  represented  cannot  be  questioned.  But  the  historical 
genius  displayed  in  "  Esmond  "  goes  beyond  this.  We  know 
of  no  history  in  which  the  intrigues  and  confusion  of  parties  at 
the  death  of  Queen  Anne  are  sketched  so  firmly  as  in  the 
third  volume  of  that  work  ;  in  fact,  a  more  thorough  historical 
novel  was  never  written.  It  is  not  loaded  with  historical 
learning ;  and  yet  it  is  most  truly,  though  or  rather  because 
unpretendingly,  a  complete  representation  of  the  time.  It 
reads  like  a  veritable  memoir.  And  it  will  hardly  be  disputed, 
that  a  good  historical  novel  cannot  be  written  save  by  one 
possessed  of  great  historical  powers.  What  are  the  qualities 
necessary  to  a  historian  ?  Knowledge,  love  of  truth,  insight 
into  human  nature,  imagination  to  make  alive  before  him  the 
times  of  which  he  writes.  All  these  Mr.  Thackeray  had.  His\ 
knowledge  was  accurate  and  minute,  —  indeed,  he  could  not 
have  written  save  of  what  he  knew  well ;  a  love  of  truth  was 
his  main  characteristic  ;  for  insight  into  human  nature  he  ranks 
second  to  Shakespeare  alone  ;  and,  while  he  wanted  that  high 
est  creative  imagination  which  makes  the  poet,  he  had  pre 
cisely  that  secondary  imagination  which  serves  the  historian, 


70  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

which  can  realize  the  past  and  make  the  distant  near.  Had  he 
been  allowed  to  carry  out  his  cherished  design  of  recording 
the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  a  great  gap  in  the  history  of  our 
country  would  have  been  filled  up  by  one  of  the  most  remark 
able  books  in  the  language.  We  might  have  had  less  than  is 
usual  of  the  "  dignity  of  history,"  of  battles  and  statutes  and 
treaties  ;  but  we  should  have  had  more  of  human  nature,  — 
the  actors  in  the  drama  would  have  been  brought  before  us 
living  and  moving,  their  passions  and  hidden  motives  made 
clear  ;  the  life  of  England  would  have  been  sketched  by  a 
subtle  artist ;  the  literature  of  England,  during  a  period  which 
this  generation  often  talks  about,  but  of  which  it  knows,  we 
suspect,  very  little,  would  have  been  presented  to  us  lighted 
up  by  appreciative  and  competent  criticism.  The  Saturday 
Reviewer  gives  a  reason  for  Mr.  Thackeray's  failure  as  a  his 
torian,  which  will  seem  strange  to  those  who  have  been  ac 
customed  to  regard  him  as  a  cynic.  He  was  so  carried  away 
by  worth,  says  this  ingenious  critic  bent  on  fault-finding,  and 
so  impatient  of  all  moral  obliquity,  that  he  could  not  value 
fairly  the  services  which  had  been  rendered  by  bad  men. 
And  the  instance  given  is  that  a  sense  of  what  we  owe  to  the 
Hanoverian  succession  was  not  allowed  to  temper  the  severity 
of  the  estimate  given  of  the  first  two  Georges  ;  —  an  unfortu 
nate  instance,  as  the  critic  would  have  discovered  had  he  read 
the  following  passage  in  the  lecture  on  George  the  Sec 
ond  :  — 

"  But  for  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  we  should  have  had  the  Pre 
tender  back  again.  But  for  his  obstinate  love  of  peace,  we 
should  have  had  wars  which  the  nation  was  not  strong  enough 
nor  united  enough  to  endure.  But  for  his  resolute  counsels 
and  good-humored  resistance,  we  might  have  had  German 
despots  attempting  a  Hanoverian  regimen  over  us  ;  we  should 
have  had  revolt,  commotion,  want,  and  tyrannous  misrule,  in 
place  of  a  quarter  of  a  century  of  peace,  freedom,  and  material 
prosperity,  such  as  the  country  never  enjoyed,  until  that  cor- 
rupter  of  parliaments,  that  dissolute,  tipsy  cynic,  that  cour- 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  /I 

ageous  lover  of  peace  and  liberty,  that  great  citizen,  patriot, 
and  statesman  governed  it." 

The  truth  is,  that  Mr.  Thackeray,  while  fully  appreciating 
the  blessings  of  the  Hanoverian  succession,  knew  well  that 
the  country  did  not  in  the  least  degree  owe  the  stability  of 
that  succession  to  the  Hanoverian  kings,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
to  that  great  minister,  whose  character  is  sketched,  in  a 
powerful  passage,  of  which  the  above  quotation  is  a  part.  In 
fact,  Mr.  Thackeray  judged  no  man  harshly.  No  attentive 
student  of  his  works  can  fail  to  see  that  he  understood  the 
duty  of  "  making  allowance,"  not  less  with  regard  to  historical 
characters,  than  with  regard  to  characters  of  his  own  creation. 
He  does  full  justice,  for  example,  to  the  courage  and  conduct 
of  Marlborough,  as  to  whose  moral  character  the  opinion  of 
Colonel  Esmond  is  in  curious  accordance  with  the  historical 
judgment  given  later  to  the  public  by  Lord  Macaulay. 

These  "  Lectures  on  the  Georges  "  were  made  the  ground 
of  a  charge  against  Mr.  Thackeray  of  disloyalty.  This  charge 
was  urged  with  peculiar  offensiveness  by  certain  journals, 
which  insinuated  that  the  failings  of  English  kings  had  been 
selected  as  a  theme  grateful  to  the  American  audiences  who 
first  heard  the  lectures  delivered.  Mr.  Thackeray  felt  this 
charge  deeply,  and  repelled  it  in  language  which  we  think 
worthy  to  be  remembered.  At  a  dinner  given  to  him  in  Edin 
burgh,  in  1857,  he  said  :  — 

"  I  had  thought  that  in  these  lectures  I  had  spoken  in  terms, 
not  of  disrespect  or  unkindness,  and  in  feelings  and  in  lan 
guage  not  un-English,  of  her  Majesty  the  Queen  ;  and  wher 
ever  I  have  had  to  mention  her  name,  whether  it  was  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Clyde  or  upon  those  of  the  Mississippi,  whether 
it  was  in  New  England  or  in  Old  England,  whether  it  was  in 
some  great  hall  in  London  to  the  artisans  of  the  suburbs  of 
the  metropolis,  or  to  the  politer  audiences  of  the  western  end, 
—  wherever  I  had  to  mention  her  name,  it  was  received  with 
shouts  of  applause,  and  with  the  most  hearty  cheers.  And 


72  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

why  was  this  ?  It  was  not  on  account  of  the  speaker  ;  it  was 
on  account  of  the  truth  ;  it  was  because  the  English  and  the 
Americans  —  the  people  of  New  Orleans  a  year  ago,  the 
people  of  Aberdeen  a  week  ago  —  all  received  and  acknowl 
edged  with  due  allegiance  the  great  claims  to  honor  which  that 
lady  has  who  worthily  holds  that  great  and  awful  situation 
which  our  Queen  occupies.  It  is  my  loyalty  that  is  called  in 
question,  and  it  is  my  loyalty  that  I  am  trying  to  plead  to  you. 
Suppose,  for  example,  in  America,  —  in  Philadelphia  or  in 
New  York,  —  that  I  had  spoken  about  George  IV.  in  terms  of 
praise  and  affected  reverence,  do  you  believe  they  would  have 
hailed  his  name  with  cheers,  or  have  heard  it  with  anything 
*  like  respect  ?  They  would  have  laughed  in  my  face  if  I  had 
so  spoken  of  him.  They  know  what  I  know  and  you  know, 
and  what  numbers  of  squeamish  loyalists  who  affect  to  cry 
out  against  my  lectures  know,  that  that  man's  life  was  not  a 
good  life,  —  that  that  king  was  not  such  a  king  as  we  ought  to 
love,  or  regard,  or  honor.  And  I  believe,  for  my  part,  that,  in 
speaking  the  truth,  as  we  hold  it,  of  a  bad  sovereign,  we  are 
paying  no  disrespect  at  all  to  a  good  one.  Far  from  it.  On 
the  contrary,  we  degrade  our  own  honor  and  the  Sovereign's 
by  unduly  and  unjustly  praising  him  ;  and  the  mere  slaverer 
and  flatterer  is  one  who  comes  forward,  as  it  were,  with  flash 
notes,  and  pays  with  false  coin  his  tribute  to  Caesar.  I  don't 
disguise  that  I  feel  somehow  on  my  trial  here  for  loyalty,  for 
honest  English  feeling." 

The  judgment  pronounced  by  the  accomplished  Scotch  judge 
who  presided  at  this  dinner-trial,  a  man  far  removed,  both  by 
tastes  and  position,  from  any  sympathy  with  vulgar  popularity- 
hunting,  will  be  accepted  by  every  candid  person  as  just :  — 

"  I  don't,"  said  Lord  Neaves,  "  for  my  part,  regret  if  there 
are  some  painful  truths  told  in  these  lectures  to  those  who  had 
before  reposed  in  the  pleasing  delusion  that  everything  royal 
was  immaculate.  I  am  not  sorry  that  some  of  the  false  trap 
pings  of  royalty  or  of  a  court  life  should  be  stripped  off.  We 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  73 

live  under  a  Sovereign  whose  conduct,  both  public  and  private, 
is  so  unexceptionable,  that  we  can  afford  to  look  all  the  facts 
connected  with  it  in  the  face  ;  and  woe  be  to  the  country  or  to 
the  crown  when  the  voice  of  truth  shall  be  stifled  as  to  any 
such  matters,  or  when  the  only  tongue  that  is  allowed  to  be 
heard  is  that  of  flattery." 

It  was  said  of  Fontenelle  that  he  had  as  good  a  heart  as 
could  be  made  out  of  brains.  Adapting  the  observation,  we 
may  say  of  Thackeray  that  he  was  as  good  a  poet  as  could  be 
made  out  of  brains.  The  highest  gifts  of  the  poet  of  course 
he  wanted.  His  imagination,  to  take  Ruskin's  distinction, 
was  more  penetrative  than  associative  or  contemplative.  His 
mind  was  too  much  occupied  with  realities  for  persistent  ideal 
work.  But  manliness  and  common  sense,  combined  with  a 
perfect  mastery  of  language,  go  a  long  way  at  least  to  the 
making  of  very  excellent  verses.  More  than  this,  he  had  the 
sensibility,  the  feeling  of  time  and  of  numbers  essential  to 
versifying  ;  and  his  mind  fulfilled  the  condition  required  by 
our  greatest  living  poet :  — 

"  Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
Flowing  like  a  crystal  river." 

His  verse-making  was  a  sort  of  pleasaunce,  —  a  flower-garden 
in  the  midst  of  spacious  policies.  It  was  the  ornamentation 
of  his  intellect.  His  ballads  do  not  perhaps  show  poetic  feel 
ing  more  profound  than  is  possessed  by  many  men  ;  they  de 
rive,  for  the  most  part,  their  charm  from  the  same  high  quali 
ties  as  mark  his  prose,  with  the  attraction  of  music  and  rhyme 
superadded.  Writing  them  seems  to  have  given  him  real 
pleasure.  The  law  of  self-imposed  restraint,  of  making  the 
thought  often  wait  upon  the  sound,  necessary  in  rhythmical 
composition,  rather  than,  as  in  prose,  the  sound  upon  the 
sense,  —  this  measuring  of  feeling  and  of  expression  had 
plainly  a  great  charm  for  his  rich  and  docile  genius.  His 
verses  give  one  the  idea  of  having  been  a  great  delight  to 
himself,  like  humming  a  favorite  air  ;  there  is  no  trace  of  ef- 


74  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

fort,  and  yet  the  trick  of  the  verse  is  perfect.  His  rhymes 
are  often  as  good  as  Swift's  and  Hood's.  This  feeling  of  en 
joyment,  as  also  the  abounding  fertility  in  strange  rhymes,  is 
very  marked  in  the  White  Squall ;  and  hardly  less  in  the  ease 
and  gayety  of  Peg  of  Limavaddy.  Take,  for  instance,  the  de 
scription  of  the  roadside  inn  where  Peg  dispenses  liquor :  — 

"  Limavaddy  inn's 

But  a  humble  baithouse, 
Where  you  may  procure 

Whiskey  and  potatoes  ; 
Landlord  at  the  door 

Gives  a  smiling  welcome 
To  the  shivering  wights 

Who  to  his  hotel  come. 
Landlady  within 

Sits  and  knits  a  stocking, 
With  a  wary  foot 

Baby's  cradle  rocking. 
To  the  chimney  nook, 

Having  found  admittance, 
There  I  watch  a  pup 

Playing  with  two  kittens  ; 
(Playing  round  the  fire, 

Which  of  blazing  turf  is, 
Roaring  to  the  pot 

Which  bubbles  with  the  murphies) 
And  the  cradled  babe 

Fond  the  mother  nursed  it, 
Singing  it  a  song 

As  she  twists  the  worsted!  " 

Peg  herself  and  her  laugh,  — 

"  Such  a  silver  peal ! 

In  the  meadows  listening, 
You  who  've  heard  the  bells 

Ringing  to  a  christening  ; 
You  who  ever  heard 

Caradori  pretty, 
Smiling  like  an  angel, 

Singing  '  Giovinetti ' ; 
Fancy  Peggy's  laugh, 

Sweet,  and  clear,  and  cheerful, 
At  my  pantaloons 

With  half  a  pint  of  beer  full ! 
See  her  as  she  moves ! 

Scarce  the  ground  she  touches, 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  75 

Airy  as  a  fay, 

Graceful  as  a  duchess  ; 
Bare  her  rounded  arm, 

Bare  her  little  leg  is, 
Vestris  never  showed 

Ankles  like  to  Peggy's  ; 
Braided  is  her  hair, 

Soft  her  look  and  modest, 
Slim  her  little  waist 

Comfortably  boddiced." 

.  In  a  similar  light  and  graceful  style  are  the  "  Cane-Bottomed 
Chair,"  "  Piscator  and  Piscatrix,"  the  "  Carmen  Lilliense,"  etc. ; 
and  all  the  Lyra  Hibernica,  especially  the  rollicking  "  Battle  of 
Limerick,"  are  rich  in  Irish  absurdity.  That  compact  little  epic, 
the  "  Chronicle  of  the  Drum,"  the  well-known  "  Bouillabaisse," 
and  "  At  the  Church  Gate,"  —  the  first  literary  effort  of  Mr. 
Arthur  Penclennis,  —  seem  to  us  in  their  various  styles  to  rise 
into  the  region  of  real  poetry.  The  "  Chronicle  of  the  Drum  " 
is  a  grand  martial  composition,  and  a  picture  of  the  feelings  of 
the  French  soldiery  which  strikes  on  us  at  once  as  certainly 
true.  The  ballads  of  Pleaceman  X.  are  unique  in  literature, 
—  as  startlingly  original  as  "  Tarn  O'Shanter."  "  Jacob  Hom- 
nium's  Hoss  "  is  perhaps  the  most  amusing,  the  "  Foundling  of 
Shoreditch  "  the  most  serious  ;  but  through  them  all  there  runs 
a  current  of  good  sense,  good  feeling,  and  quaint  fun  which 
makes  them  most  pleasant  reading.  They  remind  one  some 
how  of  John  Gilpin,  —  indeed  there  is  often  the  same  playful 
fancy  and  delicate  pensiveness  in  Thackeray  as  in  Cowper. 
We  should  like  to  quote  many  of  these  ;  but  we  give  in  pref 
erence  Miss  Tickletoby's  ballad  on  King  Canute,  long  though 
it  be,  because  it  is  not  included  in  the  collected  ballads,  and 
has  not,  we  fear,  obtained  great  popularity  by  being  incor 
porated  into  "  Rebecca  and  Rowena,"  —  a  rendering  of  poetical 
justice  less  generally  read  than  it  should  be  :  — 

KING  CANUTE 

King  Canute  was  weary-hearted  ;  he  had  reigned  for  years  a  score  ; 
Battling,  struggling,  pushing,  fighting,  killing  much  and  robbing  more, 
And  he  thought  upon  his  actipns,  walking  by  the  wild  sea-shore. 


76 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 


'Twixt  the  chancellor  and  bishop  walked  the  king  with  steps  sedate, 
Chamberlains  and  grooms  came  after,  silver  sticks  and  gold  sticks  great, 
Chaplains,  aides-de-camp,  and  pages, — all  the  officers  of  state. 

Sliding  after  like  his  shadow,  pausing  when  he  chose  to  pause  ; 

If  a  frown  his  face  contracted,  straight  the  courtiers  dropped  their  jaws  ; 

If  to  laugh  the  king  was  minded,  out  they  burst  in  loud  hee-haws. 

But  that  day  a  something  vexed  him,  that  was  clear  to  old  and  young, 
Thrice  his  grace  had  yawned  at  table,  when  his  favorite  gleeman  sung, 
Once  the  queen  would  have  consoled  him,  but  he  bade  her  hold  her  tongue. 

"  Something  ails  my  gracious  master,"  cried  the  keeper  of  the  seal  ; 
"Sure,  my  lord,  it  is  the  lampreys  served  at  dinner,  or  the  veal !  " 
"  Psha!  "  exclaimed  the  angry  monarch,  "  keeper,  't  is  not  that  I  feel. 

"  'T  is  the  heart  and  not  the  dinner,  fool,  that  doth  my  rest  impair ; 
Can  a  king  be  great  as  I  am,  prithee,  and  yet  know  no  care  ? 
Oh,  I  'm  sick,  and  tired,  and  weary."  —  Some  one  cried,  "The  king's  arm-chair!  " 

Then  towards  the  lackeys  turning,  quick  my  lord  the  keeper  nodded, 
Straight  the  king's  great  chair  was  brought  him,  by  two  footmen  able-bodied, 
Languidly  he  sank  into  it :  it  was  comfortably  wadded. 

"Leading  on  my  fierce  companions,"  cried  he,  " over  storm  and  brine, 
I  have  fought  and  I  have  conquered!     Where  was  glory  like  to  mine !  " 
Loudly  all  the  courtiers  echoed,  "  Where  is  glory  like  to  thine  ?  " 

"  What  avail  me  all  my  kingdoms?  Weary  am  I  now,  arid  old, 
Those  fair  sons  I  have  begotten  long  to  see  me  dead  and  cold  ; 
Would  I  were,  and  quiet  buried,  underneath  the  silent  mould  ! 

"  O  remorse,  the  writhing  serpent !  at  my  bosom  tears  and  bites : 
Horrid,  horrid  things  I  look  on,  though  I  put  out  all  the  lights  ; 
Ghosts  of  ghastly  recollections  troop  about  my  bed  of  nights. 

"  Cities  burning,  convents  blazing,  red  with  sacrilegious  fires  ; 

Mothers  weeping,  virgins  screaming,  vainly  for  their  slaughtered  sires"  — 
"  Such  a  tender  conscience,"  cries  the  bishop,  "  every  one  admires." 

"  But  for  such  unpleasant  bygones,  cease,  my  gracious  lord,  to  search, 
They  're  forgotten  and  forgiven  by  our  holy  Mother  Church  ; 
Never,  never  does  she  leave  her  benefactors  in  the  lurch. 

"  Look!  the  land  is  crowned  with  ministers,  which  your  Grace's  bounty  raised  ; 
Abbeys  filled  with  holy  men,  where  yon  and  heaven  are  daily  praised  ; 
you,  my  lord,  to  think  of  dying  ?  on  my  conscience,  I  'm  amazed  !  " 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  77 

11  Nay,  I  feel,"  replied  King  Canute,  "  that  my  end  is  drawing  near  ;" 
"  Don't  say  so,"  exclaimed  the  courtiers  (striving  each  to  squeeze  a  tear), 
"  Sure  your  Grace  is  strong  and  lusty,  and  may  live  this  fifty  year." 

"  Live  these  fifty  years!  '"  the  bishop  roared,  with  actions  made  to  suit, 

' '  Are  you  mad,  my  good  lord  keeper,  thus  to  speak  of  King  Canute ! 

Men  have  lived  a  thousand  years,  and  sureJiis  Majesty  will  do't. 

"Adam,  Enoch,  Lamech,  Canan,  Mahaleel,  Methusela, 

Lived  nine  hundred  years  apiece,  and  mayn't  the  king  as  well  as  they?" 
"  Fervently,"  exclaimed  the  keeper,  "  fervently,  I  trust  he  may.'' 

11  He  to  die,"  resumed  the  bishop.     "  He  a  mortal  like  to  us? 
Death  was  not  for  him  intended,  though  communis  omnibus  ; 
Keeper,  you  are  irreligious,  for  to  talk  and  cavil  thus. 

"  With  his  wondrous  skill  in  healing  ne'er  a  doctor  can  compete, 
Loathsome  lepers,  if  he  touch  them,  start  up  clean  upon  their  feet; 
Surely  he  could  raise  the  dead  up,  did  his  Highness  think  it  meet. 

''  Did  not  once  the  Jewish  captain  stay  the  sun  upon  the  hill, 

And  the  while  he  slew  the  foemen,  bid  the  silver  moon  stand  still  ? 
So,  no  doubt,  could  gracious  Canute,  if  it  were  his  sacred  will." 

"  Might  I  stay  the  sun  above  us,  good  Sir  Bishop?  "  Canute  cried  ; 
"Could  I  bid  the  silver  moon  to  pause  upon  her  heavenly  ride? 
If  the  moon  obeys  my  orders,  sure  I  can  command  the  tide. 

"  Will  the  advancing  waves  obey  me,  bishop,  if  I  make  the  sign  ?" 
Said  the  bishop,  bowing  lowly,  "  Land  and  sea,  my  lord,  are  thine." 
Canute  turned  towards  the  ocean,  — "  Back !  "  he  said,  "  thou  foaming  brine 

"  From  the  sacred  shore  I  stand  on,  I  command  thee  to  retreat ; 
Venture  not,  thou  stormy  rebel,  to  approach  thy  master's  seat ; 
Ocean,  be  thou  still !  I  bid  thee  come  not  nearer  to  my  feet !  " 

But  the  sullen  ocean  answered  with  a  louder,  deeper  roar, 

And  the  rapid  waves  drew  nearer,  falling  sounding  on  the  shore  ; 

Back  the  keeper  and  the  bishop,  back  the  king  and  courtiers  bore. 

And  he  sternly  bade  them  never  more  to  kneel  to  human  clay, 
But  alone  to  praise  and  worship  that  which  earth  and  seas  obey ; 
And  his  golden  crown  of  empire  never  wore  he  from  that  day. 
King  Canute  is  dead  and  gone  :  parasites  exist  alway. 

We  must  say  a  few  words  on  his  merits  as  an  artist  and  a 
critic  of  art.  We  can  hardly  agree  with  those  who  hold  that 
he  failed  as  an  artist,  and  then  took  to  his  pen.  There  is  no 


78  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

proof  of  failure ;  his  art  accomplishes  all  he  sets  it  to.  Had 
he,  instead  of  being  a  gentleman's  son,  brought  up  at  the 
Charter-house  and  Cambridge,  been  born  in  the  parish  of  St. 
Bartholomew  the  Great,  and  apprenticed,  let  us  say,  when 
thirteen  years  old,  to  Raimbach  the  engraver,  we  might  have 
had  another,  and  in  some  ways  a  subtler  Hogarth.  He  draws 
well ;  his  mouths  and  noses,  his  feet,  his  children's  heads,  all 
his  ugly  and  queer  "  mugs,"  are  wonderful  for  expression  and 
good  drawing.  With  beauty  of  man  or  woman  he  is  not  so 
happy ;  but  his  fun  is,  we  think,  even  more  abounding  and 
funnier  in  his  cuts  than  in  his  words.  The  love  of  fun  in  him 
was  something  quite  peculiar.  Some  writers  have  been  more 
witty ;  a  few  have  had  a  more  delicate  humor ;  but  none,  we 
think,  have  had  more  of  that  genial  quality  which  is  described 
by  the  homely  \vord/##.  It  lay  partly  in  imitation,  as  in  the 
"  Novels  by  Eminent  Hands."  There  were  few  things  more 
singular  in  his  intellectual  organization  than  the  coincidence  of 
absolute  originality  of  thought  and  style  with  exquisite  mim 
etic  power.  But  it  oftener  showed  itself  in  a  pure  love  of  non 
sense,  —  only  nonsense  of  the  highest  order.  He  was  very 
fond  of  abandoning  himself  to  this  temper  ;  witness  the 
"  Story  a  la  Mode  "  in  the  "  Cornhill,"  some  of  the  reality- 
giving  touches  in  which  would  have  done  credit  to  Gulliver. 
Major  Gahagan  is  far  funnier  than  Baron  Munchausen  ;  and 
where  is  there  more  exquisite  nonsense  than  "  The  Rose  and 
the  Ring,"  with  the  "  little  beggar  baby  that  laughed  and  sang 
as  droll  as  may  be  ?  "  There  is  much  of  this  spirit  in  his 
ballads, l  especially,  as  we  have  already  said,  the  series  by 

1  We  subjoin  an  astonishing  piece  of  nonsense,  —  a  species  of  song,  or  ditty,  which 
he  chanted,  we  believe,  extempore^  [in  singing,  each  line  to  be  repeated  twice] :  — 

LITTLE  BILLEE. 

There  were  3  sailors  in  Bristol  city, 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea. 

But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  biscuit, 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 

There  was  guzzling  Jack  and  gorging  Jimmy, 
And  the  youngest  he  was  little  Billee. 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  79 

Pleaceman  X.  ;  but  we  are  inclined  to  think  that  it  finds  most 
scope  in  his  drawings.  We  well  remember  our  surprise  on 
coming  upon  some  of  his  earlier  works  for  "  Punch."  Best  of 

Now  very  soon,  they  were  so  greedy, 
They  didn't  leave  not  one  split  pea. 

Says  guzzling  Jack  to  gorging  Jimmy 
"  I  am  extremely  hungaree." 

Says  gorging  Jim  to  guzzling  Jacky, 
"  We  have  no  provisions,  so  we  must  eat  we." 

Says  guzzling  Jack  to  gorging  Jimmy, 
"  O  gorging  Jim,  what  a  fool  you  be ! 

"  There  's  little  Bill  is  young  and  tender, 
We  're  old  and  tough,  so  let 's  eat  he." 

"  O  Bill,  we  're  going  to  kill  and  eat  you, 
So  undo  the  collar  of  your  chemie." 

When  Bill  received  this  infumation 
He  used  his  pocket-handkerchie. 

"  O  let  me  say  my  catechism, 
As  my  poor  mammy  taught  to  me." 

"  Make  haste,  make  haste,,''  says  guzzling  Jacky, 
While  Jim  pulled  out  his  snickersnee. 

So  Bill  went  up  the  maintop-gallant  mast, 
Where  down  he  fell  on  his  bended  knee. 

He  scarce  had  come  to  the  Twelfth  Commandmen, 
When  up  he  jumps,  "There 's  land,  I  see. 

" There's  Jerusalem  and  Madagascar, 
And  North  and  South  Amerikee. 

"  There  's  the  British  fleet  a  riding  at  anchor, 
With  Admiral  Nelson,  K.  C.  B." 

"  So  when  they  came  to  the  admiral's  vessel, 
He  hanged  fat  Jack  and  flogged  Jinimee. 

But  as  for  little  Bill,  he  made  him 
The  captain  of  a  seventy- three. 


8O  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

all  was  an  impressive  series  illustrative  of  the  following  pas 
sage  in  the  "  Times  "  of  December  7,  1843  :  "The  agents  of 
the  tract  societies  have  lately  had  recourse  to  a  new  method  of 
introducing  their  tracts  into  Cadiz.  The  tracts  were  put  into 
glass  bottles  securely  corked ;  and,  taking  advantage  of  the 
tide  flowing  into  the  harbor,  they  were  committed  to  the 
waves,  on  whose  surface  they  floated  towards  the  town,  where 
the  inhabitants  eagerly  took  them  up  on  their  arriving  at  the 
shore.  The  bottles  were  then  uncorked,  and  the  tracts  they 
contain  are  supposed  to  have  been  read  with  much  interest." 
The  purpose  of  the  series  is  to  hold  up  to  public  odium  the 
Dissenting  tract-smuggler, —  Tractistero  dissentero  contraban- 
distero.  The  first  cut  represents  a  sailor,  "  thirsty  as  the  sea 
man  naturally  is,"  rushing  through  the  surf  to  seize  the  bottle 
which  has  been  bobbing  towards  him.  "  Sherry,  perhaps,"  he 
exclaims  to  himself  and  his  friend.  Second  cut :  the  thirsty 
expectant  has  the  bottle  in  position,  and  is  drawing  the  cork, 
another  mariner,  and  a  little  wondering  boy,  capitally  drawn, 
looking  on.  "  Rum,  I  hope,"  is  the  thought  of  each.  Lastly 
we  have  the  awful  result :  our  friend  holds  up  on  the  cork 
screw  to  his  companion  and  the  universe  "  a  Spanish  transla 
tion  of  the  Cow-boy  of  Kensington  Common,"  with  an  indig 
nant  "  Tracts,  by  jingo  !  "  Then  there  is  John  Balliol,  in 
"Miss  Tickletoby's  Lectures,"  "cutting  "  into  England  on  a 
ragged  sheltie,  which  is  trotting  like  a  maniac  over  a  series  of 
boulders,  sorely  discomposing  the  rider,  whose  kilt  is  of  the 
shortest.  Even  better  is  the  cut  illustrative  of  the  ballad  of 
"  King  Canute,"  the  king  and  his  courtiers  on  the  shore,  with 
bathing-machines  and  the  Union-Jack  in  the  distance  ;  and  a 
most  preposterous  representation  of  the  non  Angli  sed  Angeli 
story.  We  wish  Mr.  Thackeray's  excellent  friends,  the  pro 
prietors  of  "  Punch,"  would  reprint  all  his  odds  and  ends,  with 
their  wood-cuts.  They  will  get  the  laughter  and  gratitude  of 
mankind  if  they  do. 

He  is,  as  far  as  we  recollect,  the  only  great  author  who 
illustrated  his  own  works.  This  gives  a  singular  completeness 
to  the  result.  When  his  pen  has  said  its  say,  then  comes  his 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  8 1 

pencil  and  adds  its  own  felicity.  Take  the  original  edition 
of  the  Book  of  Snobs,  all  those  delicious  Christmas  little 
quartos,  especially  "  Mrs.  Perkins's  Ball "  and  the  "  Rose  and 
the  Ring  "  (one  of  the  most  perfectly  realized  ideas  we  know 
of),  and  see  how  complete  is  the  duet  between  the  eye  and  the 
mind,  between  word  and  figure.  There  is  an  etching  in  the 
"  Paris  Sketch-Book "  which  better  deserves  to  be  called 
"high  art  "  than  most  of  the  class  so  called.  It  is  Majesty  in 
the  person  of  "  Le  Grand  Monarque  "  in  and  stripped  of  its 
externals,  which  are  there  also  by  themselves.  The  lean  and 
slippered  old  pantaloon  is  tottering  peevishly  on  his  staff,  his 
other  hand  in  his  waistcoat  pocket ;  his  head  absolutely  bald  ; 
his  whole  aspect  pitiable  and  forlorn,  querulous  and  absurd. 
To  his  left  is  his  royal  self,  in  all  his  glory  of  high-heeled 
boots,  three-storied  flowing  wig,  his  orders,  and  sword,  and  all 
his  "dread  magnificence,"  as  we  know  him  in  his  pictures  ;  on 
his  right  we  behold,  and  somehow  feel  as  if  the  old  creature, 
too,  is  in  awe  of  them,  —  his  clothes,  per  se,  —  the  "  proper 
ties  "  of  the  great  European  actor,  set  .ingeniously  up,  and 
looking  as  grand  and  much  steadier  than  with  him  inside. 
The  idea  and  the  execution  are  full  of  genius.  The  frontis 
piece  of  the  same  book  contains  a  study  of  Heads,  than  which 
Hogarth  certainly  never  did  anything  better.  These  explan 
atory  lines  are  below  the  picture  :  — 

"  Number  i  's  an  ancient  Carlist ;  number  3  a  Paris  artist ; 
Gloomily  there  stands  between  them  number  2,  a  Bonapartist ; 
In  the  middle  is  King  Louis  Philip  standing  at  his  ease, 
Guarded  by  a  loyal  grocer,  and  a  serjeant  of  police  ; 

4  's  the  people  in  a  passion  ;  6  a  priest  of  pious  mien  ; 

5  a  gentleman  of  fashion  copied  from  a  magazine/' 

No  words  can  do  justice  to  the  truth  and  power  of  this  group 
of  characters  :  it  gives  a  history  of  France  during  the  Orleans 
dynasty. 

It  would  not  be  easy  to  imagine  better  criticisms  of  art  than 

those  from  Mr.  Thackeray's  hand  in  "  Fraser,"  in  "  Punch," 

in  a  kindly  and  beautiful  paper  on  our  inimitable  John  Leech 

in  the  "  Quarterly,"  in  a  Roundabout  on  Rubens,  and  through- 

6 


$2  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

out  his  stories,  —  especially  the  "  Newcomes,"  —  wherever 
art  comes  in.  He  touches  the  matter  to  the  quick,  —  and 
touches  nothing  else  ;  and,  while  sensitive  to  all  true  and 
great  art,  he  detects  and  detests  all  that  is  false  or  mean,.  He 
is  not  so  imaginative,  not  so  impassioned  and  glorious,  not  so 
amazing  in  illustration,  and  in  painting  better  than  pictures,  as 
Mr.  Ruskin,  who  has  done  more  for  art  and  its  true  interests 
than  all  other  writers.  But  he  is  more  to  be  trusted  because 
he  is  more  objective,  more  cool,  more  critical  in  the  true  sense. 
He  sees  everything  by  the  lumen  siccum,  though  it  by  no 
means  follows  that  he  does  not  feel  as  well  as  see  ;  but  here, 
as  in  everything  else,  his  art  "  has  its  seat  in  reason,  and  is 
judicious."  Here  is  his  description  of  Turner's  Old  Te- 
meraire,  from  a  paper  on  the  Royal  Academy  in  "  Fraser." 
We  can  give  it  no  higher  praise  than  that  it  keeps  its  own 
with  Ruskin's  :  — 

"  I  must  request  you  to  turn  your  attention  to  a  noble  river 
piece,  by  J.  W.  M.  Turner,  Esq.,  R.  A.,  <  The  Fighting  Te- 
meraire,'  as  grand  a  painting  as  ever  figured  on  the  walls  of 
any  academy,  or  came  from  the  easel  of  any  painter.  The  old 
Temeraire  is  dragged  to  her  last  home  by  a  little,  spiteful, 
diabolical  steamer.  A  mighty  red  sun,  amidst  a  host  of  flaring 
clouds,  sinks  to  rest  on  one  side  of  the  picture,  and  illumines 
a  river  that  seems  interminable,  and  a  countless  navy  that 
fades  away  into  such  a  wonderful  distance  as  never  was 
painted  before.  The  little  demon  of  a  steamer  is  belching  out 
a  volume  (why  do  I  say  a  volume  ?  not  a  hundred  volumes 
could  express  it)  of  foul,  lurid,  red-hot,  malignant  smoke,  pad 
dling  furiously,  and  lashing  up  the  water  round  about  it ;  while 
behind  it  (a  cold,  gray  moon  looking  down  on  it),  slow,  sad,  and 
majestic,  follows  the  brave  old  ship,  with  death,  as  it  were, 

written  on  her It  is  absurd,  you  will   say  (and  with  a 

great  deal  of  reason),  for  Titmarsh  or  any  other  Briton  to  grow 
so  politically  enthusiastic  about  a  four-foot  canvas,  represent 
ing  a  ship,  a  steamer,  a  river,  and  a  sunset.  But  herein  surely 
lies  the  power  of  the  great  artist.  He  makes  you  see  and 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  83 

think  of  a  great  deal  more  than  the  objects  before  you  ;  he 
knows  how  to  soothe  or  to  intoxicate,  to  fire  or  to  depress,  by 
a  few  notes,  or  forms,  or  colors,  of  which  we  cannot  trace  the 
effect  to  the  source,  but  only  acknowledge  the  power.  I  recol 
lect  some  years  ago,  at  the  theatre  at  Weimar,  hearing  Bee 
thoven's  '  Battle  of  Vittoria,'  in  which,  amidst  a  storm  of  glori 
ous  music,  the  air  of  '  God  save  the  King  '  was  introduced. "  The 
very  instant  it  begun,  every  Englishman  in  the  house  was  bolt 
upright,  and  so  stood  reverently  until  the  air  was  played  out. 
Why  so  ?  From  some  such  thrill  of  excitement  as  makes  us 
glow  and  rejoice  over  Mr.  Turner  and  his  i  Fighting  Teme- 
raire,'  which  I  am  sure,  when  the  art  of  translating  colors  into 
poetry  or  music  shall  be  discovered,  will  be  found  to  be  a 
magnificent  national  ode  or  piece  of  music." 

When  speaking  of  "  The  Slave  Ship  "  by  the  same  amazing 
artist,  he  says,  with  delightful  naivete :  "  I  don't  know  whether 
it  is  sublime  or  ridiculous,"  —  a  characteristic  instance  of  his 
outspoken  truthfulness  ;  and  he  lays  it  down  that  the  "  first 
quality  of  an  artist  is  to  have  a  large  heart,"  believing  that  all 
art,  all  imaginative  work  of  the  highest  order,  must  originate 
in  and  be  addressed  to  the  best  powers  of  the  soul,  must 
"  submit  the  shows  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  mind." 

Mr.  Trollope  says,  in  the  "  Cornhill "  for  this  February, 
"  That  which  the  world  will  most  want  to  know  of  Thackeray 
is  the  effect  which  his  writings  have  produced."  In  one  sense 
of  the  word,  the  world  is  not  likely  ever  to  find  this  out  ;  it  is 
a  matter  which  each  man  must  determine  for  himself.  But 
the  world  can  perhaps  ascertain  what  special  services  Mr. 
Thackeray  has  rendered  ;  and  it  is  this  probably  which  Mr.. 
Trollope  means.  His  great  service  has  been  in  his  exposure 
of  the  prevailing  faults  of  his  time.  Among  the  foremost  are 
the  faults  of  affectation  and  pretense,  but  there  is  one  yet 
more  grievous  than  these,  —  the  skeptical  spirit  of  the  age. 
This  he  has  depicted  in  the  gentlest  and  saddest  of  all  his 
books,  "  Pendennis  "  :  — 


84  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

"  And  it  will  be  seen  that  the  lamentable  stage  to  which  his 
logic  at  present  has  brought  him  "  (Arthur  Pendennis)  "  is  one 
of  general  skepticism  and  sneering  acquiescence  in  the 
world  as  it  is  ;  or  if  you  like  so  to  call  it,  a  belief  qualified 

with  scorn  in  all  things  extant And  to  what  does  this 

easy  and  skeptical  life  lead  a  man  ?  Friend  Arthur  was  a 
Sadducee,  and  the  Baptist  might  be  in  the  wilderness  shouting 
to  the  poor,  who  were  listening  with  all  their  might  and  faith 
to  the  preacher's  awful  accents  and  denunciations  of  wrath  or 
woe  or  salvation  ;  and  our  friend  the  Sadducee  would  turn  his 
sleek  mule  with  a  shrug  and  a  smile  from  the  crowd,  and  go 
home  to  the  shade  of  his  terrace,  and  muse  over  preacher  and 
audience,  and  turn  to  his  roll  of  Plato,  or  his  pleasant  Greek 
song-book  babbling  of  honey  and  Hybla,  and  nymphs  and 
fountains  .and  love.  To  what,  we  say,  does  this  skepticism 
lead  ?  It  leads  a  man  to  a  shameful  loneliness  and  selfish 
ness,  so  to  speak,  —  the  more  shameful,  because  it  is  so  good- 
humored  and  conscienceless  and  serene.  Conscience  !  What 
is  conscience  ?  Why  accept  remorse  ?  What  is  public  or 
private  faith  ?  Mythuses  alike  enveloped  in  enormous  tradi 
tion." 

The  delineation  is  not  a  pleasant  one,  but  it  is  true.  The 
feeling  hardly  deserves  to  be  called  skepticism  ;  it  is  rather  a 
calm  inclifferentism,  a  putting  aside  of  all  things  sacred.  And 
as  the  Sadducees  of  Judea  were,  on  the  whole,  better  men 
than  the  Pharisees,  so  this  modern  Sadducean  feeling  prevails 
not  only  among  the  cultivated  classes,  but  among  those  con 
spicuously  honorable  and  upright,  These  men,  in  fact,  want 
spiritual  guides  and  teachers.  The  clergy  do  not  supply  this 
want  ;  most  of  them  refuse  to  acknowledge  its  existence  ; 
Mr.  Thackeray,  with  his  fearless  truthfulness,  sees  it  and  tells 
it.  To  cure  it  is  not  within  his  province.  As  a  lay-preacher, 
only  the  secondary  principles  of  morality  are  at  his  command. 
"Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman,"  is  his  highest  sanction. 
But  though  he  cannot  tell  the  afflicted  whither  to  turn,  it  is  no 
slight  thing  to  have  laid  bare  the  disorder  from  which  so  many 


THACKERAY^S  LITERARY  CAREER.  85 

suffer,  and  which  all,  with  culpable  cowardice,  study  to  con 
ceal.     And  he  does  more  than  lay  bare  the  disorder  ;  he  con 
vinces   us  how  serious  it  is.     He  does  this  by  showing  us  its 
evil  effect  on  a  good  and  kindly  nature.     No  teaching  can  be  ' 
more  impressive  than  the  contrast  between  Pendennis  under 
the   influence  of  this  skeptical  spirit,   and  Warrington,  over  ' 
whom,   crushed  as   he   is  by  hopeless    misfortune,   it  has  no 
power. 

The  minor  vices  of  affectation  and  pretension  he  assails 
/directly.  To  do  this  was  his  especial  mission  from  the  first. 
What  success  may  have  attended  his  efforts  we  cannot  cer 
tainly  tell.  It  is  to  be  feared,  however,  that,  despite  his  teach 
ing,  snobs,  like  poverty,  will  never  cease  out  of  the  land. 
But  all  who  feel  guilty,  —  and  every  one  of  us  is  guilty  more 
or  less,  —  and  who  desire  to  amend,  should  use  the  means  : 
the  "  Book  of  Snobs  "  should  be  read  carefully  at  least  once  a 
year.  His  was  not  the  hortatory  method.  He  had  no  notion 
that  much  could  be  done  by  telling  people  to  be  good.  He 
found  it  more  telling  to  show  that  by  being  otherwise  they 
were  in  danger  of  becoming  unhappy,  ridiculous,  and  con 
temptible.  Yet  he  did  not  altogether  neglect  positive  teach 
ing.  Many  passages  might  be  taken  from  his  works  —  even 
from  the  remorseless  "  Book  of  Snobs  "  itself  —  which  incul 
cate  the  beauty  of  goodness  ;  and  the  whole  tendency  of  his 
writings,  from  the  first  to  the  last  line  he  penned  during  a  long 
and  active  literary  life,  has  invariably  been  to  inspire  reverence 
for  manliness  and  purity  and  truth.  And  to  summon  up  all, 
in  representing  after  his  measure  the  characteristics  of  the 
age,  Mr.  Thackeray  has  discharged  one  of  the  highest  func 
tions  of  a  writer.  His  keen  insight  into  modern  life  has  en 
abled  him  to  show  his  readers  that  life  fully ;  his  honesty  and 
high  tone  of  mind  has  enabled  him  to  do  this  truly.  Hence 
he  is  the  healthiest  of  writers.  In  his  pages  we  find  no  false 
stimulus,  no  pernicious  ideals,  no  vulgar  aims.  We  are  led  to 
look  at  things  as  they  really  are,  and  to  rest  satisfied  with  our 
place  among  them.  Each  man  learns  that  he  can  do  much  if 
he  preserves  moderation  ;  that  if  he  goes  beyond  his  proper 


86  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

sphere  he  is  good  for  nothing.  He  teaches  us  to  find  a  fitting 
field  for  action  in  our  peculiar  studies  or  business,  to  reap 
lasting  happiness  in  the  affections  which  are  common  to 
all.  Our  vague  longings  are  quieted  ;  our  foolish  ambitions 
checked  ;  we  are  soothed  into  contentment  with  obscurity,  — 
encouraged  in  an  honest  determination  to  do  our  duty. 

A  "  Roundabout  Paper  "  on  the  theme  Nil  nisi  bonum  con 
cludes  thus  :  — 

"  Here  are  two  literary  men  gone  to  their  account ;  and, 
laus  Deo,  as  far  as  we  know,  it  is  fair,  and  open,  and  clean. 
Here  is  no  need  of  apologies  for  shortcomings,  or  explana 
tions  of  vices  which  would  have  been  virtues  but  for  unavoid 
able,  etc.  Here  are  two  examples  of  men  most  differently 
gifted  :  each  pursuing  his  calling  ;  each  speaking  his  truth  as 
God  bade  him ;  each  honest  in  his  life  ;  just  and  irreproach 
able  in  his  dealings  ;  dear  to  his  friends  ;  honored  by  his 
country ;  -beloved  at  his  fireside.  It  has  been  the  fortunate 
lot  of  both  to  give  incalculable  happiness  and  delight  to  the 
world,  which  thanks  them  in  return  with  an  immense  kindli 
ness,  respect,  affection.  It  may  not  be  our  chance,  brother- 
scribe,  to  be  endowed  with  such  merit  or  rewarded  with  such 
fame.  But  the  rewards  of  these  men  are  rewards  paid  to  our 
service.  We  may  not  win  the  baton  or  epaulettes  ;  but  God 
give  us  strength  to  guard  the  honor  of  the  flag !  " 

The  prayer  was  granted  :  he  had  strength  given  him  always 
to  guard  the  honor  of  the  flag ;  and  now  his  name  is  worthy 
to  be  placed  beside  the  names  of  Washington  Irving  and  Lord 
Macaulay,  as  of  one  no  whit  less  deserving  the  praise  of  these 
noble  words. 

We  have  seen  no  satisfactory  portrait  of  Mr.  Thackeray. 
We  like  the  photographs  better  than  the  prints  ;  and  we  have 
an  old  daguerreotype  of  him  without  his  spectacles  which  is 
good  ;  but  no  photograph  can  give  more  of  a  man  than  is  in 
any  one  ordinary  —  often  very  ordinary  —  look  of  him  ;  it  is 
only  Sir  Joshua  and  his  brethren  who  can  paint  a  man  liker 
than  himself.  Laurence's  first  drawing  has  much  of  his  thor- 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  8/ 

oughbred  look,  but  the  head  is  too  much  tossed  up  and  vif. 
The  photograph  from  the  later  drawing  by  the  same  hand  we 
like  better  :  he  is  alone,  and  reading  with  his  book  close  up 
to  his  eyes.  This  gives  the  prodigious  size  and  solidity  of  his 
head,  and  the  sweet  mouth.  We  have  not  seen  that  by  Mr. 
Watts,  but,  if  it  is  as  full  of  power  and  delicacy  as  his  Tenny 
son,  it  will  be  a  comfort. 

Though  in  no  sense  a  selfish  man,  he  had  a  wonderful  in 
terest  in  himself  as  an  object  of  study,  and  nothing  could  be 
more  delightful  and  unlike  anything  else  than  to  listen  to  him 
on  himself.  He  often  draws  his  own  likeness  in  his  books. 
In  the  "  Fraserians,"  by  Maclise,  in  "  Eraser,"  is  a  slight 
sketch  of  him  in  his  unknown  youth  ;  and  there  is  an  exces 
sively  funny  and  not  unlike  extravaganza  of  him  by  Doyle  or 
Leech,  in  the  "  Month,"  a  little  short-lived  periodical,  edited 
by  Albert  Smith.  He  is  represented  lecturing,  when  certainly 
he  looked  his  best. 

The  foregoing  estimate  of  his  genius  must  stand  instead  of 
any  special  portraiture  of  the  man.  Yet  we  would  mention 
two  leading  traits  of  character  traceable,  to  a  large  extent,  in 
his  works,  though  finding  no  appropriate  place  in  a  literary 
criticism  of  them.  One  was  the  deep  steady  melancholy  of 
his  nature.  He  was  fond  of  telling  how  on  one  occasion,  at 
Paris,  he  found  himself  in  a  great  crowded  salon;  and  looking 
from  the  one  end  across  the  sea  of  heads,  being  in  Swift's 
place  of  calm  in  a  crowd,1  he  saw  at  the  other  end  a  strange 
visage,  staring  at  him  with  an  expression  of  comical  woebe- 
goneness.  After  a  little  he  found  that  this  rueful  being  was 
himself  in  the  mirror.  He  was  not,  indeed,  morose.  He  was 
alive  to  and  thankful  for  every-day  blessings,  great  and  small ; 
for  the  happiness  of  home,  for  friendship,  for  wit  and  music, 
for  beauty  of  all  kinds,  for  the  pleasures  of  the  "  faithful  old 
gold  pen  "  ;  now  running  into  some  felicitous  expression,  now 
playing  itself  into  some  droll  initial  letter  ;  nay,  even  for  the 
creature  comforts.  But  his  persistent  state,  especially  for  the 

1  "  An  inch  or  two  above  it." 


88  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

later  half  of  his  life,  was  profoundly  morne,  —  there  is  no 
other  word  for  it.  This  arose  in  part  from  temperament,  from 
a  quick  sense  of  the  littleness  and  wretchedness  of  mankind. 
His  keen  perception  of  the  meanness  and  vulgarity  of  the  re 
alities  around  him  contrasted  with  the  ideal  present  to  his 
mind  could  produce  no  other  effect.  This  feeling,  embittered 
by  disappointment,  acting  on  a  harsh  and  savage  nature,  ended 
in  the  sceva  indignatio  of  Swift ;  acting  on  the  kindly  and  too 
sensitive  nature  of  Mr.  Thackeray,  it  led  only  to  compassion 
ate  sadness.  In  part,  too,  this  melancholy  was  the  result  of 
private  calamities.  He  alludes  to  these  often  in  his  writings, 
and  a  knowledge  that  his  sorrows  were  great  is  necessary  to 
the  perfect  appreciation  of  much  of  his  deepest  pathos.  We 
allude  to  them  here,  painful  as  the  subject  is,  mainly  because 
they  have  given  rise  to  stories,  —  some  quite  untrue,  some 
even  cruelly  injurious.  The  loss  of  his  second  child  in  infancy 
was  always  an  abiding  sorrow,  —  described  in  the  "  Hoggarty 
Diamond,"  in  a  passage  of  surpassing  tenderness,  too  sacred 
to  be  severed  from  its  context.  A  yet  keener  and  more  con 
stantly  present  affliction  was  the  illness  of  his  wife.  He  mar 
ried  her  in  Paris  when  he  was  "  mewing  his  mighty  youth," 
preparing  for  the  great  career  which  awaited  him.  One  likes 
to  think  on  these  early  .days  of  happiness,  when  he  could  draw 
and  write  with  that  loved  companion  by  his  side  :  he  has  him 
self  sketched  the  picture  :  "  The  humblest  painter,  be  he  ever 
so  poor,  may  have  a  friend  watching  at  his  easel,  or  a  gentle 
wife  sitting  by  with  her  work  in  her  lap,  and  with  fond  smiles 
or  talk  or  silence,  cheering  his  labors."  After  some  years  of 
marriage,  Mrs.  Thackeray  caught  a  fever,  brought  on  by  im 
prudent  exposure  at  a  time  when  the  effects  of  such  ailments 
are  more  than  usually  lasting  both  on  the  system  and  the 
nerves.  She  never  afterwards  recovered  so  as  to  be  able  to 
be  with  her  husband  and  children.  But  she  has  been  from  the 
first  intrusted  to  the  good  offices  of  a  kind  family,  tenderly 
cared  for,  surrounded  with  every  comfort  by  his  unwearied 
affection.  The  beautiful  lines  in  the  ballad  of  the  "  Bouilla 
baisse  "  are  well  known  :  --- 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  89 

"  Ah  me !  how  quick  the  days  are  flitting  3 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that 's  gone, 
When  here  I  'd  sit  as  now  I  'm  sitting, 

In  this  same  place,  —  but  not  alone. 
A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 

A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up, 
And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me,  — 

There  's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup." 

In  one  of  the  latest  "  Roundabouts  "  we  have  this  touching 
confession  :  "  I  own  for  my  part  that,  in  reading  pages  which 
this  hand  penned  formerly,  I  often  lose  sight  of  the  text  under 
my  eyes.  It  is  not  the  words  I  see  ;  but  that  past  day  ;  that 
by-gone  page  of  life's  history ;  that  tragedy,  comedy  it  may 
be,  which  our  little  home-company  was  enacting  ;  that  merry 
making  which  we  shared  ;  that  funeral  which  we  followed  ; 
that  bitter,  bitter  grief  which  we  buried."  But  all  who  knew 
him  know  well,  and  love  to  recall,  how  these  sorrows  were 
soothed  and  his  home  made  a  place  of  happiness  by  his  two 
daughters  and  his  mother,  who  were  his  perpetual  compan 
ions,  delights,  and  blessings,  and  whose  feeling  of  inestimable 
loss  now  will  be  best  borne  and  comforted  by  remembering 
how  they  were  everything  to  him,  as  he  was  to  them. 

His  sense  of  a  higher  Power,  his  reverence  and  godly  fear, 
is  felt  more  than  expressed  —  as  indeed  it  mainly  should  al 
ways  be  —  in  everything  he  wrote.  It  comes  out  at  times 
quite  suddenly,  and  stops  at  once,  in  its  full  strength.  We 
could  readily  give  many  instances  of  this.  One  we  give,  as  it 
occurs  very  early,  when  he  was  probably  little  more  than  six- 
and- twenty ;  it  is  from  the  paper,  "  Madam  Sand  and  the 
New  Apocalypse."  Referring  to  Henri  Heine's  frightful 
words,  "  Dieu  qui  se  meurt,"  "  Dieu  est  mort,"  and  to  the  wild 
godlessness  of  "  Spiridion,"  he  thus  bursts  out  :  "  O  awful, 
awful  name  of  God  !  Light  unbearable  !  mystery  unfathom 
able  !  vastness  immeasurable  !  Who  are  these  who  come 
forward  to  explain  the  mystery,  and  gaze  unblinking  into  the 
depths  of  the  light,  and  measure  the  immeasurable  vastness  to 
a  hair  ?  O  name  that  God's  people  of  old  did  fear  to  utter  ! 
O  light  that  God's  prophet  would  have  perished  had  he  seen ! 


go  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

who  are  these  now  so  familiar  with  it  ?  "  In  ordinary  inter 
course  the  same  sudden  "  Te  Deum  "  would  occur,  always  brief 
and  intense,  like  lightning  from  a  cloudless  heaven  ;  he  seemed 
almost  ashamed,  —  not  of  it,  but  of  his  giving  it  expression. 

We  cannot  resist  here  recalling  one  Sunday  evening  in 
December,  when  he  was  walking  with  two  friends  along  the 
Dean  road  to  the  west  of  Edinburgh,  —  one  of  the  noblest 
outlets  to  any  city.  It  was  a  lovely  evening,  —  such  a  sunset 
as  one  never  forgets  :  a  rich  dark  bar  of  cloud  hovered  over 
the  sun,  going  down  behind  the  Highland  hills,  lying  bathed 
in  amethystine  bloom ;  between  this  cloud  and  the  hills  there 
was  a  narrow  slip  of  the  pure  ether,  of  a  tender  cowslip  color, 
lucid,  and  as  if  it  were  the  very  body  of  heaven  in  its  clear 
ness  ;  every  object  standing  out  as  if  etched  upon  the  sky. 
The  northwest  end  of  Corstorphine  Hill,  with  its  trees  and 
rocks,  lay  in  the  heart  of  this  pure  radiance,  and  there  a 
wooden  crane,  used  in  the  quarry  below,  was  so  placed  as  to 
assume  the  figure  of  a  cross  ;  there  it  was,  unmistakable, 
lifted  up  against  the  crystalline  sky.  All  three  gazed  at  it 
silently.  As  they  gazed,  he  gave  utterance  in  a  tremulous, 
gentle,  and  rapid  voice,  to  what  all  were  feeling,  in  the  word 
"  CALVARY  ! "  The  friends  walked  on  in  silence,  and  then 
turned  to  other  things.  All  that  evening  he  was  very  gentle 
and  serious,  speaking,  as  he  seldom  did,  of  divine  things, — 
of  death,  of  sin,  of  eternity,  of  salvation  ;  expressing  his 
simple  faith  in  God  and  in  his  Saviour. 

There  is  a  passage  at  the  close  of  the  "  Roundabout  Paper," 
No.  XXIII.,  "  De  Finibus,"  in  which* a  sense  of  the  ebb  of  life 
is  very  marked  :  the  whole  paper  is  like  a  soliloquy.  It  opens 
with  a  drawing  of  Mr.  Punch,  with  unusually  mild  eye,  retiring 
for  the  night ;  he  is  putting  out  his  high-heeled  shoes,  and  be 
fore  disappearing  gives  a  wistful  look  into  the  passage,  as  if 
bidding  it  and  all  else  good-night.  He  will  be  in  bed,  his 
candle  out,  and  in  darkness,  in  five  minutes,  and  his  shoes 
found  next  morning  at  his  door,  the  little  potentate  all  the 
while  in  his  final  sleep.  The  whole  paper  is  worth  the  most 
careful  study  ;  it  reveals  not  a  little  of  his  real  nature,  and  un- 


THACKERAY'S  LITERARY  CAREER.  91 

folds  very  curiously  the  secret  of  his  work,  the  vitality,  and 
abiding  power  of  his  own  creations  ;  how  he  "  invented  a  cer 
tain  Costigan,  out  of  scraps,  heel-taps,  odds  and  ends  of 
characters,"  and  met  the  original  the  other  day,  without  sur 
prise,  in  a  tavern  parlor.  The  following  is  beautiful  :  "  Years 
ago  I  had  a  quarrel  with  a  certain  well-known  person  (I  be 
lieved  a  statement  regarding  him  which  his  friends  imparted 
to  me,  and  which  turned  out  to  be  quite  incorrect).  To  his 
dying  day  that  quarrel  was  never  quite  made  up.  I  said  to  his 
brother,  '  Why  is  your  brother's  soul  still  dark  against  me  ? 
//  is  I  who  ought  to  be  angry  and  unforgiving,  for  I  was  in 
the  wrong?  "  Odisse  quern  Iceseris  was  never  better  contra 
vened.  But  what  we  chiefly  refer  to  now  is  the  profound  pen- 
siveness  of  the  following  strain,  as  if  written  with  a  presenti 
ment  of  what  was  not  then  very  far  off  :  "  Another  Finis 
written  ;  another  milestone  on  this  journey  from  birth  to  the 
next  world.  Sure  it  is  a  subject  for  solemn  cogitation.  Shall 
we  continue  this  story-telling  business,  and  be  voluble  to  the 
end  of  our  age  ?  "  "  Will  it  not  be  presently  time,  O  prattler, 
to  hold  your  tongue  ?  "  And  thus  he  ends  :  — 

"  Oh,  the  sad  old  pages,  the  dull  old  pages  ;  oh,  the  cares, 
the  ennui,  the  squabbles,  the  repetitions,  the  old  conversa 
tions  over  and  over  again  !  But  now  and  again  a  kind  thought 
is  recalled,  and  now  and  again  a  dear  memory.  Yet  a  few 
chapters  more,  and  then  the  last  ;  after  which,  behold  Finis 
itself  comes  to  an  end,  and  the  Infinite  begins." 

He  sent  the  proof  of  this  paper  to  his  "  dear  neighbors,"  in 
Onslow  Square,  to  whom  he  owed  so  much  almost  daily 
pleasure,  with  his  corrections,  the  whole  of  the  last  paragraph 
in  manuscript,  and  above  a  first  sketch  of  it  also  in  MS., 
which  is  fuller  and  more  impassioned.  His  fear  of  "  enthu 
siastic  writing"  had  led  him,  we  think,  to  sacrifice  something 
of  the  sacred  power  of  his  first  words,  which  we  give  with 
its  interlineations  :  — 

"  Another  Finis,  another  slice  of  life  which  Tempus  edax 
has  devoured  !  And  I  may  have  to  write  the  word  once  or 


92  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

twice  perhaps,  and  then  an  end  of  Ends.  Finite  is  over,  and 
Infinite  beginning.  Oh  the  troubles,  the  cares,  the  ennui,  the 

disputes, 

•complications,  the  repetitions,  the  old  conversations  over  and 
over  again,  and  here  and  there  and  oh  the  delightful  passages, 
the  dea^j.the  brief,  the  forever  remembered  !  And  then  A  few 
chapters  more,  and  then  the  last,  and  then  behold  Finis  itself 
coming  to  an  end  and  the  Infinite  beginning  !  " 

How  like  music  this,  —  like  one  trying  the  same  air  in  dif 
ferent  ways  ;  as  it  were,  searching  out  and  sounding  all  its 
depths.  "  The  dear,  the  brief,  the  forever  remembered  ;  " 
these  are  like  a  bar  out  of  Beethoven,  deep  and  melancholy  as 
the  sea  !  He  had  been  suffering  on  Sunday  from  an  old  and 
cruel  enemy.  He  fixed  with  his  friend  and  surgeon  to  come 
again  on  Tuesday  ;  but  with  that  dread  of  anticipated  pain, 
which  is  a  common  condition  of  sensibility  and  genius,  he  put 
him  off  with  a  note  from  "  yours  unfaithfully,  W.  M.  T."  He 
went  out  on  Wednesday  for  a  little,  and  .came  home  at  ten. 
He  went  to  his  room  suffering  much,  but  declining  his  man's 
offer  to  sit  with  him.  He  hated  to  make  others  suffer.  He 
was  heard  moving,  as  if  in  pain,  about  twelve,  on  the  eve  of 

"The  happy  morn, 

Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven's  eternal  King, 

Of  wedded  maid,  and  virgin-mother  born, 

Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring." 

Then  all  was  quiet,  and  then  he  must  have  died  —  in  a  mo 
ment.  Next  morning  his  man  went  in,  and  opening  the  win 
dows  found  his  master  dead,  his  arms  behind  his  head,  as  if 
he  had  tried  to  take  one  more  breath.  We  think  of  him  as  of 
our  Chalmers  ;  found  dead  in  like  manner ;  the  same  child 
like,  unspoiled  open  face  ;  the  same  gentle  mouth  ;  the  same 
spaciousness  and  softness  of  nature  ;  the  same  look  of  power. 
What  a  thing  to  think  of,  —  his  lying  there  alone  in  the  dark, 
in  the  midst  of  his  own  mighty  London  ;  his  mother  and  his 
daughters  asleep,  and,  it  may  be,  dreaming  of  his  goodness. 
God  help  them,  and  us  all  !  What  would  become  of  us,  stum- 


SOME  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY.  93 

bling  along  this  our  path  of  life,  if  we  could  not,  at  our  utmost 
need,  stay  ourselves  on  Him  ? 

Long  years  of  sorrow,  labor,  and  pain  had  killed  him  before 
his  time.  It  was  found  after  death  how  little  life  he  had  to 
live.  He  looked  always  fresh  with  that  abounding  silvery 
hair,  and  his  young,  almost  infantine  face,  but  he  was  worn  to 
a  shadow,  and  his  hands  wasted  as  if  by  eighty  years.  With 
him  it  is  the  end  of  Ends  ;  finite  is  over,  and  infinite  begun. 
What  we  all  felt  and  feel  can  never  be  so  well  expressed  as 
in  his  own  words  of  sorrow  for  the  early  death  of  Charles 
Buller :  - 

"  Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave ! 
Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine, 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave  ? 
We  bow  to  Heaven  that  willed  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow, 

That's  free  to  give,  or  to  recall.7' 

SOME  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY. 

"  You  have  asked  me  to  give  you  my  recollections  of 
Thackeray,  but  not,  I  trust,  with  the  expectation  that  they 
would  consist  of  a  string  of  piquant  anecdotes  and  witticisms, 
or  contain  any  new  and  striking  revelations  in  regard  to  his 
life  or  character.  For  the  former  object  a  better  memory  and 
more  pointed  pen  —  perhaps  I  might  rather  say,  a  more  active 
imagination  —  than  mine  would  be  required,  and  for  the  latter 
a  more  extended  and  intimate  knowledge  of  the  man. 

"  I  saw  him  for  the  first  time  a  day  or  two  after  his  arrival 
in  America  on  his  first  visit,  and  I  saw  him  for  the  last  time  a 
few  weeks  before  his  death. 

"  Like  the  rest  of  the  world,  I  had  exclaimed,  on  reading  the 
opening  chapters  of  '  Vanity  Fair,'  i  Fielding  redivivus  !  '  and 
it  was  therefore  with  a  feeling  of  curiosity  and  elation,  the 
capacity  for  which  has  been  seriously  impaired  by  time,  that  I 
accepted  the  invitation  of  a  friend,  himself  a  man  of  eminence 
in  the  world  of  letters,  to  meet  the  author  who  had  given  me 
so  much  delight,  and  whose  fame  had  ]ust  reached  its  zenith. 


94  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

"  It  is  rarely  that  the  appearance  of  a  distinguished  man 
corresponds  with  our  expectations  ;  but  the  fault  is  in  our 
selves,  or  rather  in  the  nature  of  things.  People  are  often 
disappointed  in  their  first  view  of  the  Alps  :  they  expect  to  be 
enraptured  or  stunned  before  their  eyes  or  their  minds  have 
grasped  the  features  which  constitute  the  beauty  and  sublimity 
of  the  scene  ;  whereas  this  effect  can  only  follow  a  process  in 
which  the  first  step  is  to  get  rid  of  one's  false  impressions, 
and  there  Is  nothing  more  jarring  to  the  mind  than  a  rectifica 
tion  of  its  misconceptions.  Let  us  afterward  compare  the 
reality,  full  of  force  and  character,  with  the  vague  and  color 
less  image  we  had  formed  for  ourselves,  and  we  shall  know 
what  we  have  gained. 

"  Good  portraits  of  Thackeray  are  so  common,  and  so  many 
of  your  readers  saw  him  in  the  lecture-room,  that  I  need  not 
describe  his  person.  The  misshaped  nose,  so  broad  at  the 
bridge,  and  stubby  at  the  end,  was  the  effect  of  an  early 
accident.  His  near-sightedness,  unless  hereditary,  must  have 
had,  I  think,  a  similar  origin,  for  no  man  had  less  the  appear 
ance  of  a  student  who  had  weakened  his  sight  by  application 
to  books.  In  his  gestures  —  especially  in  the  act  of  bowing  to 
a  lady — there  was  a  certain  awkwardness,  made  more  con 
spicuous  by  his  tall,  well-proportioned,  and  really  commanding 
figure.  His  hair,  at  forty,  was  already  gray,  but  abundant  and 
massy ;  the  cheeks  had  a  ruddy  tinge  and  there  was  no  sallow- 
ness  in  the  complexion  ;  the  eyes,  keen  and  kindly  even  when 
they  wore  a  sarcastic  expression,  twinkled  sometimes  through 
and  sometimes  over  the  spectacles.  What  I  should  call  the 
predominant  expression  of  the  countenance  was  courage  —  a 
readiness  to  face  the  world  on  its  own  terms,  without  either 
bawling  or  whining,  asking  no  favors,  yielding,  if  at  all,  from 
magnanimity.  I  have  seen  but  two  faces  in  which  this  ex 
pression,  coupled  with  that  of  high  intellectual  power,  was 
equally  striking  —  those  of  Daniel  Webster  and  Thomas  Car- 
lyle.  But  the  former  had  a  saturnine  gloom  even  in  its  anima 
tion,  and  the  latter  a  variety  and  intensity  of  expression,  which 
were  absent  from  Thackeray's. 


SOME  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY.          95 

"  On  the  evening  of  which  I  speak  I  sat  beside  him  some 
time  in  the  library  —  an  apartment  of  which  he  has  made 
mention  in  the  opening  sentence  of  '  The  Virginians.'  A 
variety  of  topics,  chiefly  literary,  were  discussed.  His  own 
manner  soon  made  it  impossible,  even  for  one  who  in  every 
sense  looked  up  to  him,  to  be  otherwise  than  familiar  in  tone. 
No  one  was  more  thoroughly  high-bred,  but  no  one  more 
averse  to  formality,  and  there  was  consequently  no  fencing 
required  before  one  could  feel  at  ease  with  him.  His  expres 
sions  at  times  were  tolerably  blunt.  Speaking  of  Carlyle,  he 

said,  '  Why  don't  he  hang  up  his  d d  old  fiddle  ? '  adding, 

however,  in  reference  to  the  "  Life  of  Sterling,"  then  recently 
published,  '  Yes,  a  wonderful  writer  !  What  could  you  or  /(!) 
have  made  of  such  a  subject  ?  '  He  went  on  to  praise  Car- 
lyle's  dignity  of  character  :  'He  would  not  go  round  making  a 
show  of  himself,  as  I  am  doing.'  i  But  he  has  lectured.'  '  He 
did  it  once,  and  was  done  with  it.' 

"  When  I  was  going  away,  and  had  reached  the  farther  end 
of  a  vacant  drawing-room,  a  voice,  which  had  already  grown 
familiar  to  my  ear,  called  after  me  from  the  half-opened  glass 
door  of  the  library,  1 1  say  !  come  and  dine  with  me  to-morrow 
at  two-thirty.'  While  I  was  gladly  accepting  the  invitation 
the  host  came  out  and  took  us  both  back  to  smoke,  the  ladies 
and  other  guests  having  in  the  mean  time  left.  We  sat  till  a 
late,  or  rather  early,  hour.  Thackeray  was  at  that  time  a 
furious  smoker,  choosing  the  strongest  cigars  and  dispatching 
them  in  rapid  succession.  Part  of  the  talk  ran  on  Dickens,  of 
whom  he  spoke  in  a  somewhat  different  strain  from  what  he 
used  in  public.  Our  host  had  introduced  the  subject  by 
saying,  after  some  censure  of  that  popular  novelist's  extrav 
agancies,  '  But  I  like  Dickens  personally :  he  is  so  genial  and 
frank.'  'Genial,  yes,'  was  the  reply;  'but  frank' — and  a 
twinkle  came  from  over  the  spectacles  — '  well,  frank  as  an 
oyster.'  — '  Dickens,'  he  said  afterwards,  apropos  of  some 
remarks  on  literary  genius,  '  is  making  ten  thousand  pounds  a 
year.  He  is  very  angry  at  me  for  saying  so,  but  I  will  say  it, 
for  it  is  true.  He  does  n't  like  me  :  he  knows  that  my  books 


96  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

are  a  protest  against  his  —  that  if  the  one  set  are  true,  the 
other  must  be  false.  But  '  Pickwick  '  is  an  exception  :  it  is  a 
capital  book.  It  is  like  a  glass  of  good  English  ale.  I  wish  I 
had  it  to  read  before  going  to  bed  to-night.'  And  he  made  a 
slight  inaudible  motion  with  his  lips,  as  if  tasting  the  beverage 
he  had  mentioned. 

"  During  his  stay  in  Boston  at  that  time,  as  well  as  on  a 
second  visit,  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  him,  both  in  company  and 
tete-a-tete.  In  his  general  manner  he  gave  one  the  impres 
sion  of  having  a  very  large  amount  of  vitality,  without  that 
excess  which  makes  some  people  restless  and  others  bois 
terous.  I  never  heard  him  laugh  heartily  or  talk  vehemently, 
nor  do  I  believe  that  breeding  or  a  deep  experience  of  life  had 
so  much  to  do  with  this  as  natural  temperament.  But  neither 
was  there  any  appearance  of  ennui^  though  a  lassitude  —  the 
effect  of  ill-health,  from  which,  though  you  would  never  have 
suspected  it,  he  was  seldom  free  —  came  over  him  at  times, 
especially  in  the  small  hours.  In  society  he  was  almost 
always  animated,  and  he  had  the  power  of  diffusing  animation 
over  a  somewhat  frigid  circle. 

"  One  evening,  when  he  was  expected  at  a  large  dinner 
party,  where  the  other  guests  were  already  assembled,  a  gen 
eral  conversation  sprung  up  —  we  were  sitting  in  a  semicircle 
before  a  bright  coal  fire  —  in  reference  to  his  lectures.  Two 
or  three  extremely  well-read  men,  of  a  rather  formal  turn  of 
mind,  did  most  of  the  talk,  and  indulged  in  a  good  deal  of 
carping  criticism.  It  was  not  his  depreciation  of  Swift  and 
Sterne,  or  his  exaggerated  laudation  of  Addison,  of  which 
they  complained,  but  of  his  calling  Sir  William  Temple  a  prig 
—  whereas  Temple  was  in  truth  the  very  model  of  a  gentle 
man,  who  had  written  in  a  style  which  was  charming,  though 
a  little  incorrect  —  his  talking  of  '  a  place  in  the  Pipe  Office  ' 
in  evident  and  deplorable  ignorance  of  what  the  Pipe  Office 
was  or  had  been,  and  similar  matters.  At  the  height,  or 
rather  depth,  of  the  discussion  the  subject  of  it  entered,  and 
going  round  the  circle  shook  hands  with  those  he  knew,  and 
finding  they  were  by  far  the  greater  number,  turned  back  to 


SOME   RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKEKAY.          97 

exchange  the  same  greeting  with  those  to  whom  he  had 
merely  bowed  when  introduced.  In  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if 
a  new  spirit  had  taken  possession  of  the  company.  It  was 
not  that  the  theme  was  changed  :  on  the  contrary,  though 
dropped  for  a  moment,  most  of  the  mooted  points  were  again 
taken  up.  But  there  was  a  life  in  the  conversation  which  it 
had  wanted  before.  It  was  no  longer  a  dry  debate.  On  some 
of  the  questions  Thackeray  owned  himself  wrong.  He  ad 
mitted  with  a  quizzical  look  his  lack  of  information  in  regard 
to  the  Pipe  Office.  But  he  stuck  to  the  assertion  that  Stella 
was  a  natural  daughter  of  Temple,  went  over  the  facts  from 
which  the  inference  was  drawn,  and  in  answer,  not  to  a 
counter-statement,  but  a  demand  for  more  sufficient  proof, 
said,  '  I  cannot  prove  it :  it  is  apparent,  like  the  broken  nose 
in  my  face.' 

"  The  French  draw  a  distinction  between  Vhoiwne  de  genie 
and  Vhomme  d"*  esprit,  meaning  by  the  latter  term  not  so  much 
the  witty  man,  or  the  man  of  talent  or  even  of  intellect,  but 
rather  the  man  whose  powers,  without  being  great  or  pro 
found,  are  always  at  his  service,  who  is  never  embarrassed  or 
at  a  loss  in  his  particular  line,  which  line,  in  a  land  where  the 
salon  is  an  institution,  always  includes  sparkling  conversation. 
Thackeray  was  a  man  of  genius,  but  he  possessed  as  much  of 
esprit  as  is  compatible  with  genius.  If  seldom  brilliant,  he 
was  always  self-possessed  and  ready.  It  is  doubtful  whether 
those  who  knew  him  best  and  longest  could  make  out  a  list  of 
his  bon-mots  which  would  bear  repeating ;  but  he  could 
always  say  a  thing  sufficiently  good  for  the  occasion,  and  in  a 
manner  which  set  it  off  to  advantage.  Being  challenged  by  a 
lady  for  a  rhyme  to  liniment,  he  replied  immediately,  with  a 
reference  to  the  customary  physician's  fee  in  England, 

'  When  the  doctor  writes  for  liniment, 
There  is  nothing  but  a  guinea  meant.' 

Another  fair  one  going  into  raptures,  on  shipboard,  over  the 
appearance  of  the  foam-crested  waves,  and  demanding  a  simile 
in  default  of  imagination  on  her  own  part,  he  said,  '  They  look 
like  white  ponies  racing  over  green  fields.'  With  a  sly  look  he 
7 


98  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

would  take  quick  advantage  of  any  slip  of  the  tongue  com 
mitted  by  another.  He  told  a  story  on  one  occasion  of  the 
head-master  of  Eton  having  flogged  over  a  hundred  boys  in 
continuous  succession  for  some  joint  offense.  '  One  would 
have  thought  such  a  performance  would  have  raised  a  re 
bellion,'  said  a  listener.  'What  were  the  boys'  —  meaning 
the  rest  of  the  school  —  *  about  ?  Didn't  they  know  what  was 
going  on  ?  '  '  No,  not  till  the  next  morning,  when  they  woke 
up  and  found  they  had  been  flogged.' 

"  Such  things,  I  well  know,  are  not  at  all  worth  citing  for 
themselves,  but,  like  his  bright  look  and  springing  gait,  they 
were,  in  their  abundance,  indications  of  a  quality  which  is 
obvious  enough  in  Thackeray's  writings  —  at  least  in  the  ear 
lier  ones  —  but  which  was  more  conspicuous  in  his  conversa 
tion  —  a  quality  which,  for  lack  of  a  better  term,  I  must  call 
animal  spirits,  though  this  carries  with  it  a  notion  of  effusive 
ness  and  loud  gayety  that  would  not  at  all  suit  the  description. 
When  a  subject  was  seriously  discussed  he  could  talk  gravely, 
though  with  diminished  fire,  and  was  apt,  when  pressed,  to 
have  recourse  to  banter.  I  doubt  whether  any  one  ever 
induced  him  to  say  much  about  matters  of  religious  belief  or 
feeling.  What  is  called  his  cynicism  showed  itself  occasion 
ally.  He  defined  the  difference  between  Shakespeare  and  an 
ordinary  mind  as  a  difference  in  the  length  of  two  maggots. 
But  much  of  his  light  talk  was  intended,  not  so  much  to  con 
ceal  as  to  keep  down  a  sensibility  amounting  almost  to 
womanliness  which  belonged  to  his  nature,  and  which  con 
trasted,  one  might  almost  say,  struggled,  with  the  manliness 
which  was  equally  its  characteristic.  He  could  not  read  any 
thing  pathetic  without  actual  discomfort,  and  was  unable,  for 
example,  to  go  through  with  the  "  Bride  of  Lammermoor."  1 
I  have  heard  him  allude  to  some  early  sorrows,  especially  the 
loss  of  a  child,  in  a  way  which  showed  how  sharp  and  painful 

1  Yet  Hawthorne  expresses  his  surprise  that  Thackeray  should  have  been  able  to 
read  some  of  his  own  pathos  —  the  final  number  of  "  The  Newcomes  "  —  aloud,  and 
compares  this  coolness  with  his  own  emotion  when  he  had  read  the  last  scene  01 
"The  Scarlet  Letter"  to  his  wife. 


SOME  RECOLLECTIONS  OF   THACKERAY.          99 

was  the  recollection  after  the  lapse  of  many  years.  That  he 
could  sympathize  warmly  with  others  I  infer  from  much  that  I 
have  heard.  His  well-known  sensitiveness  sprung  perhaps 
from  the  same  root  as  his  sensibility.  '  I  like  Thackeray,'  an 
English  critic  once  said  in  my  hearing,  '  but  I  cannot  respect 
him  —  he  is  so  sensitive.'  But  his  sensitiveness  made  harsh 
things  distasteful  to  him  even  when  he  was  not  himself  the 
object  of  them.  '  You  fiend  !  '  he  said  to  a  friend  who  was 
laughing  over  a  sharp  attack  on  an  acquaintance  of  both,  and 
refused  to  hear  or  read  a  word  of  it. 

"  Hawthorne  says  in  his  '  English  Note-Books  '  that  he 
had  heard  Thackeray  could  not  endure  to  have  servants  about 
him,  feeling  uneasy  in  their  presence,  and  he  goes  on,  a  la 
Hawthorne,  to  analyze  the  feeling.  On  his  second  visit  to 
America  he  brought  with  him  an  attendant  who  looked  like  a 
good  specimen  of  the  best  English  domestics.  '  I  don't  call 
him  my  servant,'  he  told  me  :  *  I  call  him  my  companion.  I 
found  he  didn't  like  the  company  down-stairs  '  (this  was  at  a 
hotel),  '  so  I  make  him  sit  beside  me  at  the  table  d'  hote?  Yet 
Thackeray  was  a  man  of  aristocratic  feelings,  and  the  last 
person  in  the  wrorld  to  be  hail  fellow  well  met  with  every  one 
who  chose  to  accost  him.  A  touch  on  the  shoulder  from  a 
railway  conductor  —  after  the  manner  of  those  '  gentlemanly  ' 
officials  —  made  the  blood  tingle  in  his  finger-ends,  and  left  a 
feeling  of  indignation  which  burned  anew  as  he  recounted  the 
occurrence.  He  demanded  civil  treatment,  but  hauteur  or 
condescension  was  not  in  his  disposition.  Standing  in  no  awe 
of  the  highest,  he  had  no  wish  to  inspire  awe  in  the  lowest. 
One  day,  after  we  had  lunched  together  at  Parker's,  he  handed 
a  gold-piece  to  the  waiter,  saying,  '  My  friend,  will  you  do  me 
the  favor  to  accept  a  sovereign  ?  '  <  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you,  Mr.  Thackeray]  was  the  man's  reply  :  he  had  not 
read  "  Vanity  Fair "  or  "  Esmond "  I  imagine,  but  he  had 
probably  tasted  their  author's  bounty  on  former  occasions. 
Yet  Thackeray  would  sometimes  be  whimsically  economical 
for  others.  '  Don't  leave  this  bit  of  paper,'  he  would  say  to  a 
visitor  who  was  laying  down  a  card  on  the  table  ;  '  it  has  cost 
you  two  cents,  and  will  be  just  as  good  for  your  next  call.' 


100  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

"  It  was  on  a  bright  day,  though  the  month  was  November 
and  the  place  London,  in  1863,  that  I  called  upon  Thackeray 
at  his  red-brick  house  —  the  only  one  of  the  kind  (so  he 
thought)  in  the  metropolis  —  looking  out  on  the  old  oaks  of 
Kensington  Gardens.  There  had  been  no  correspondence  be 
tween  us  since  I  had  seen  him  last,  but  two  or  three  kindly 
messages  had  reached  me,  and  I  had  read  a  passage  in  a 
letter  to  a  friend  at  whose  house  we  had  met,  in  which  he 
wrote,  '  How  often  I  think  I  should  like  to  be  sitting  with  you 

and  Z.  at  the  table  in street,  with  that  old  butler  putting 

on  another  bottle  of  the  '35  ! '  It  was  a  little  past  noon,  and  I 
was  shown  up  to  his  bedroom,  a  large  and  cheerful  apartment, 
with  little  furniture  besides  the  bed  —  the  bed  in  which  so 
shortly  after  he  was  to  be  found  lying  calm  in  death.  There 
was  a  dressing-room  behind,  to  which  he  went  at  times  while 
making  his  toilette,  keeping  up  the  conversation  through  the 
open  door.  His  appearance  showed  a  change  for  which  I  was 
not  prepared.  It  is  hard  to  understand  how  his  medical  men 
should  have  allowed  him  to  continue  writing  with  signs  of  im 
pending  apoplexy  so  apparent  to  the  unprofessional  eye.  In 
answer  to  my  inquires  about  his  health,  he  said  he  felt  '  in 
fernally  old.'  What  was  missing  in  his  manner  was  a  sort  of 
light  glee  with  which  in  former  days  he  had  been  wont  to  tell 
an  anecdote  or  say  a  good  thing.  The  twinkle,  too,  was  less 
bright,  the  lassitude  more  decided,  and  the  sadness  which  lay 
deep  in  his  nature,  and  against  which,  I  think,  he  always  fought, 
seemed  to  be  gaining  the  upper  hand.  However,  the  sarcastic 
power  was  not  extinct,  and  he  expended  several  flings  on  the 
editor  of  a  well-known  literary  paper  —  a  person  of  infinite 
conceit  and  of  never-failing  ignorance.  The  war  in  America 
formed,  of  course,  one  of  the  topics  of  talk.  Thackeray  ex 
pressed  no  decided  opinion,  but  his  leanings  were  evidently  on 
the  side  of  the  South.  Speaking  of  letter-writing,  ( I  had  left 
off,'  he  said,  '  corresponding  with  everybody  but  Sally  Fairfax, 
and  you  have  killed  her  —  sweet  creature  ! '  He  asked  whether 
I  thought  the  North  would  ultimately  beat,  and  on  my  assur 
ance  that  its  superior  resources,  combined  with  its  persistent 


SOME  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY.        1OI 

spirit,  admitted  of  little  doubt  on  that  point,  answered,  with  a 
half  sigh,  '  I  suppose  so :  you  will  tire  them  out  at  last.'  He 
took  a  volume  from  a  book-case  to  show  me  the  autograph  of 
Washington  on  the  fly-leaf.  'You  have  forgotten  all  about 
him]  he  said:  'you  care  nothing  now  for  his  warnings.'  I 
laughed,  reminding  him  that  I  had  always  protested  against 
his  idolatry  for  Washington.  After  chatting  for  an  hour  or 
more,  he  changed  his  dressing-gown  for  a  coat,  and  asked  me 
to  go  down  to  his  library  —  or  rather  to  the  room  he  had  built 
for  this  object,  but  which  was  not  well  suited  to  it,  making 
him  consequently  discontented  with  the  house.  An  old  lady 
in  black  entered  :  '  My  mother,'  he  said,  and  presented  me  to 
her.  There  was  no  strong  resemblance  that  I  noticed  ;  but 
her  face  had  a  look  of  placid  resoluteness  inherent,  I  fancy, 
in  the  stock,  and  she  gave  a  vigorous  description  of  a  combat 
she  had  carried  on  in  the  night  with  the  agile  insects  that  dis 
turb  slumber.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  second  husband,  and 
bore  the  name  of  Smith.  She  looked  likely  to  survive  her 
son,  and  did  in  fact,  though  only  by  a  few  months.  After  a 
while  she  went  out,  and  Thackeray  produced  a  box  of  Manil 
las,  but  did  not  smoke  himself.  'I  envy  you,'  he  said — and 
I  cannot  help  thinking,  if  the  doctors  had  taken  away  his  pen 
instead  of  his  cigar,  they  would  have  done  at  least  equally 
well.  It  was  on  this  occasion  that  he  mentioned  the  child  who 
had  died  so  many  years  before.  '  Even  now,'  he  said,  '  I  can 
not  bear  to  think  of  it.'  When  he  shook  hands  with  me  on 
the  door-step,  he  pointed  to  the  oaks  and  said,  '  You  have  no 
such  trees  in  America  ;  but  they  are  dying.'  The  appearance 
of  the  top  branches  indicated  as  much  ;  and  he  too,  from  in 
dications  not  less  apparent  —  he  in  whose  character  and  intel 
lect  the  strength  of  the  oak  was  united  with  the  beauty  and 
the  sweetness  of  the  lily  —  he  too  was  dying. 

"  It  was  with  a  shock,  but  not  of  surprise,  that  going  into 
Galignani's  on  Christmas  morning  I  received  the  announce 
ment  that  Thackeray  was  dead.  Returning  through  the  Rue 
Rivoli,  I  passed  a  tailor's  shop,  which  I  had  sometimes  en 
tered  without  recollecting  till  then  that  the  name  of  the  pro- 


102  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

prietor,   M.  Arendt,  stands   at   the   head  of  a  characteristic 
dedication  in  one  of  the  great  novelist's  books. * 

A  FRIEND  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

I  suppose  I  must  have  pulled  the  bell  very  hard  that  day, 
for  otherwise  I  don't  think  she  would  have  kept  me  waiting 
twenty  minutes,  as  she  did.  She  was  only  my  mother's  ser 
vant-woman,  whose  duty  was  to  wait  upon  the  dinner-table 
and  the  door,  the  latter  function  being  the  more  onerous  one. 
Looking  back  at  my  conduct  over  the  lapse  of  eighteen  years, 
I  am  disposed  to  acknowledge  that  she  was  right  in  the  ab 
stract  in  punishing  the  inconsiderate  impatience  which  made 
me  keep  the  door-bell  upon  a  continuous  ring  till  I  was  let  in. 
But  how  wrong  did  the  event  prove  her  !  Scarcely  was  I 
warmed  up  to  my  work,  when,  turning  my  head,  I  saw  a  tall 
gentleman  with  broad  shoulders  and  a  round  face,  whose  look, 
at  first  one  of  inquiry,  and  perhaps  bewilderment  as  he  tried 
to  distinguish  the  house  he  was  in  search  of  from  among  a 
dozen,  all  chaiacterized  by  that  unity  of  design  which  in  Phil 
adelphia  strikes  forcibly  the  intelligent  foreigner,  suddenly 
changed  to  one  of  amusement,  not,  I  thought  then,  unmixed 
with  approval,  as  he  caught  sight  of  me  at  my  reprehensible 
employment.  And  as  I  rang  with  a  persistency  which  nothing 
can  now  call  from  me,  he  stood  on  the  bottom  step  (for  it  was 
my  mother  whom  he  had  come  to  see)  with  that  expression  in 
which  I  found  so  little  discouragement,  still  looking  forth 
from  those  great  eyes  of  his,  which  had  pierced  deeply  and 
sternly  so  many  of  the  false  and  hollow  things  of  this  world, 
and  which  now,  not,  I  am  sure,  for  the  first  time,  were  bent 
kindly  down  upon  a  rude  boy  and  his  ruder  pranks.  How 
little  did  the  latter  know  about  the  tall  gentleman,  and  how 
little  too  would  he  have  cared  even  if  he  had  known  all  there 
was  to  know  about  him  :  known  that  then  the  age  was  beginning 
to  recognize  its  philosopher,  whose  lessons,  sharp  and  bitter 
enough  at  first,  were  to  make  it  better  and  truer  and  purer,  if 
such  a  thing  were  possible  of  accomplishment. 

But  that  he  was  tall  I  did  know,  and  my  standard  of  emi- 


A   FRIEND   OF  MY  CHILDHOOD.  103 

nence  was  a  purely  physical  one.  Five  feet  eight  I  did  not  de 
spise,  but  six  feet  alone  commanded  absolute  and  genuine  re 
spect  ;  and  he,  I  believe,  stood  six  feet  one.  The  presump 
tion  which  could  keep  such  a  height  of  perfection  waiting  at 
the  front  door  shocked  me  beyond  expression.  No,  not  be 
yond  expression,  for  the  triumphant  yell  with  which  the  hap 
less  servant-girl  was  greeted  when  at  last  she  admitted  me, 
and  I  burst  in  exclaiming,  "  You  have  kept  the  tall  gentleman 
waiting  half  an  hour  !  "  must  have  given,  I  think,  some  ade 
quate  idea  of  my  feelings.  To  that  incident  may  I  not  justly 
look  back  with  satisfaction  ?  Am  I  not  right  in  taking  pride 
to  myself  for  having  amused  for  so  long  a  time  one  whose 
momentary  attention  the  witty  and  the  wise  have  thought  it 
no  slight  thing  to  have  gained  ?  And  —  who  knows  ?  — 
perhaps  he  himself  did  not  altogether  forget  it,  and  with  the 
two  sturdy  Bttben  on  the  Rhine-boat,  and  those  little  men  he 
used  to  meet  at  Eton  or  on  the  play-ground  of  the  Charter 
house,  may  not  the  American  boy  also  have  found  a  place  in 
his  kindly  memory  ?  But  I  wish  it  clearly  understood  that  I 
did  not  force  myself  upon  his  acquaintance  :  no  lion-hunting 
can  be  laid  to  my  charge.  On  the  contrary,  after  giving  him  a 
glance  of  approbation  for  proving  such  an  effectual  weapon  to 
me  in  subduing  my  enemy  in  the  gate  —  or  rather  the  enemy 
whose  offense  was  that  she  was  anywhere  but  in  the  gate  —  I 
did  not,  I  can  truly  say,  bestow  another  thought  upon  him  till 
I  was  sent  for  to  afford  him,  at  his  own  special  request,  the 
honor  of  knowing  me.  Were  there  no  servants  in  the  kitchen 
to  be  tormented  ?  No  cats  in  the  back  yard  to  be  chased  with 
wild  halloo  ?  No  rowdy  boys  in  the  alley  with  whom  to  frater 
nize  over  pies  of  communistic  mud  ?  No  little  sister  up-stairs 
much  nicer  than  any  tall  gentleman,  even  though  he  might 
have  come  from  across  the  ocean  and  be  thought  a  great  deal 
of  by  the  grown-up  people,  that  I  should  go  out  of  my  way  to 
see  him,  and  abandon  my  cherished  pursuits  to  listen  to  him 
talking  of  what  I  did  not  understand,  and  did  not  believe  was 
worth  understanding  ?  No  :  my  position  was  a  high  one,  and 
I  kept  to  it,  for,  though  I  gave  up  my  occupations  a  little 


104  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

while  and  went  down  to  the  parlor,  it  was  simply  because  po 
liteness  and  filial  obedience  were  the  ruling  motives  of  my 
conduct.  Of  the  first  formal  introduction  to  my  friend  I  have 
but  a  shadowy  recollection.  He  said,  I  think,  that  he  wanted 
to  know  the  impetuous  little  boy  he  had  met  outside  ;  but 
nothing  more  which  I  can  recall.  My  own  share  in  the  con 
versation  has  entirely  faded  from  my  memory  :  it  is  probable 
indeed  that  I  had  no  share  in  it  at  all,  being  less  at  my  ease 
in  the  conventional  sphere  of  a  drawing-room  than  in  the  more 
unconstrained  atmosphere  of  a  back  alley.  Yet  in  hours  of 
depression,  when,  in  spite  of  the  most  sincere  desire  to  think 
favorably  of  mankind,  I  cannot  fail  to  notice  that  I  am  not  ap 
preciated  as  I  should  be  by  the  undiscerning  world,  and  my 
soul  seeks  consolation  and  forgetfulness  from  higher  sources, 
I  half  believe  that  when  he  went  back  to  his  own  country,  and 
spoke  there,  as  I  have  heard  he  did  very  often,  of  the  pleasant 
people  he  had  met  here,  of  the  American  friends  he  valued  so 
much,  it  was  perhaps  not  without  an  arriere-pensee  of  his 
noisy  acquaintance  of  the  doorstep  in  Locust  Street. 

The  intercourse  so  tempestuously  begun  was  threatened 
with  an  early  extinction,  for  my  newly  acquired  friend  re 
turned  soon  after  this  to  his  home,  where  were  the  two  little 
girls  whom  he  was  fond  of  describing  while  saying  that  he 
would  not  dare  to  bring  them  to  this  country,  lest  they  should 
come  to  despise  the  simple  muslin  gowns  with  which  they 
were  then  quite  content ;  home  to  the  toil  of  the  hard-worked 
brain,  the  steady  labor  of  the  untiring  pen,  which  was  to  give 
us  before  it  rested  forever  nothing  indeed  like  his  earlier 
works,  but  much  which  we  shall  not  willingly  let  die  ;  home 
to  England,  in  truth,  but  only  that,  having  written  the  story  of 
certain  of  its  kings,  as  he  had  before  written  the  worthier  his 
tory  of  some  of  its  unsceptred  monarchs,  whose  sovereign 
sway  is  over  our  spirits  still,  he  might  come  again  across  the 
ocean  to  greet  all  who  should  wish  to  hear  him  tell  of  the 
Britain  of  a  century  past,  when  our  own  history  had  as  yet 
scarcely  seen  the  conclusion  of  its  opening  chapter ;  giving  as 
he  did,  so  minute,  life-like  details  relating  to  the  great  men  of 


A   FRIEND   OF  MY  CHILCHOOD.  105 

that  time,  whose  familiar  names  were  to  most  of  his  hearers 
not  much  more  than  names,  but  which,  thanks  in  great  part  to 
him,  are  now  as  household  words.  And  so  we  met,  and  being 
two  years  older,  I  was  accorded  the  honor  of  becoming  one  of 
his  auditors,  going  with  my  mother  to  hear  each  of  his  lect 
ures.  We  sat  in  a  box  on  one  side  of  the  stage  in  Concert 
Hall,  and  at  this  moment  I  recall  the  tall,  dignified  figure 
standing  before  the  desk  on  which  were  placed  his  notes,  and 
the  crowded  room  full  of  indistinguishable  attentive  faces.  I 
sometimes  fancy  too  that  I  cannot  have  forgotten  what  are 
now  favorite  passages  from  those  lectures  —  passages  read 
and  re-read,  and  then  read  again,  till  they  are  known  almost 
by  heart.  I  cannot  acknowledge  to  myself  that  I  do  not  re 
member  his  voice  and  look,  and  the  tribute  of  listening  silence 
which  waited  upon  him  while  he  spoke. 

One  at  least  of  these  evenings  is  well  remembered.  Its 
distinguishing  feature  was  my  being  tipped.  My  mother 
and  I  had  gone  on  this  occasion  quite  early  to  our  places  — 
half  an  hour  or  three  quarters  before  the  time  when  the  lect 
ure  should  begin  —  and  we  found  the  lecturer  already  at  his 
post.  He,  with  head  thrown  back,  had  been  walking  with 
long  strides  up  and  down  the  little  waiting-room,  and  talking 
in  bright  spirits  to  my  mother,  when  a  sudden  thought  seemed 
to  strike  him,  and  diving  into  one  of  his  pockets  he  brought 
out  a  sovereign  —  perhaps  it  was  a  five-dollar  gold  piece  — 
and  insisted  upon  giving  it  to  me  ;  but  the  proposal  produced 
at  once  a  most  severe  parental  resistance,  while  I  disinterest 
edly  looked  on — a  resistance  apparently  quite  unlooked  for 
by  "  my  illustrious  friend,"  who  had  much  trouble  in  explain 
ing  that  this  species  of  beneficence  was  a  thing  of  course  in 
England.  But  American  pride  was  silenced  at  last,  though 
not  convinced,  as  will  be  seen,  for  it  planned  on  the  spot  a 
compromise  which  should  reconcile  the  differences  of  national 
feeling,  though  /was  induced  to  suppose  that  the  sovereign 
was  as  far  out  of  my  reach  as  ever  ;  and  being  then,  as  I  said 
before,  above  or  below  such  things,  I  turned  all  my  atten 
tion  to  the  lecture,  which  began  soon  afterward,  and  whose 


106  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

subject,  the  royal  bugbear  of  patriotic  school-boys  of  that  time, 
I  imagined  I  knew  all  about.  It  was  therefore  with  as 
tonished  awe  that  I  heard  the  peroration,  when  the  speaker 
said,  appealing  directly  to  us  all :  "  O  brothers  !  speaking  the 
same  dear  mother  tongue !  O  comrades  !  enemies  no  more, 
let  us  take  a  mournful  hand  together,  as  we  stand  by  this  royal 
corpse  and  call  a  truce  to  battle  !  Low  he  lies  to  whom  the 
proudest  used  to  kneel  once,  and  who  was  cast  lower  than  the 
poorest :  dead,  whom  millions  prayed  for  in  vain.  Driven  off 
his  throne  ;  buffeted  by  rude  hands  ;  with  his  children  in  re 
volt ;  the  darling  of  his  old  age  killed  before  him  untimely; 
our  Lear  hangs  over  her  breathless  lips  and  cries,  '  Cordelia ! 
Cordelia  !  stay  a  little  ! ' 

'  Vex  not  his  ghost :  oh,  let  him  pass !     He  hates  him 
That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  rough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer." 

Hush  !  strife  and  quarrel,  over  the  solemn  grave  !  Sound, 
trumpets,  a  mournful  march  !  Fall,  dark  curtain,  upon  his 
pageant,  his  pride,  his  grief,  his  awful  tragedy."  This  view  of 
the  subject  was  altogether  new. 

The  compromise  just  spoken  of — and  I  must  bring  to  an 
end  my  story,  already  too  long  —  consisted  in  the  expenditure 
of  the  five-dollar  piece  in  two  of  the  books  written  by  the  be- 
stower  of  that  inflammatory  coin.  I  open  the  volumes  of 
"  Pendennis  "  and  "  Vanity  Fair  "  which  have  been  lying  at 
my  elbow,  and  across  the  title-page  of  each  I  see  written,  in 

curiously  small   and   delicate   hand,  " ,  with  W.  M. 

Thackeray's  kind  regards.  April,  1856."  These  were  the 
books. 

A  CHILD'S  GLIMPSE  OF  THACKERAY. 

So  many  years  ago  that  I  do  not  care  to  count  them  I  was 
taken  by  my  guardian  to  an  evening  party  at  the  house  of  a 
distinguished  physician  in  Philadelphia.  Though  too  much  of 
a  boy  at  the  time  to  appreciate  or  understand  thoroughly  what 
was  going  on,  there  were  certain  little  occurrences  which 
made  an  impression  on  me  then,  and  which  have  dwelt  in  my 
memory  ever  since. 


A    CHILD'S   GLIMPSE    OF   THACKERAY.          IO/ 

The  agreeable  occupation  of  munching  sponge-cake  in  which 
I  spent  the  first  part  of  the  evening  did  not  prevent  my  notic 
ing  a  personage,  tall,  large,  spectacled,  slightly  gray,  leaning 
against  one  of  the  folding  doors,  and  engaged  in  conversation 
with  a  number  of  gentlemen,  among  whom  I  recognized  Mr. 
Peter,  then  British  consul.  What  it  was  that  attracted  me  I 
cannot  exactly  tell,  but  there  certainly  must  have  been  some 
thing  to  beguile  me  out  from  a  "  coign  of  vantage  "  well 
adapted  both  for  seeing  and  eating  —  a  snug  ambuscado  be 
hind  the  piano. 

"  Who  is  that  man  ? "  said  I  to  my  guardian,  with  indicating 
forefinger. 

"  That  gentleman  is  Mr.  Thackeray,"  was  the  smiling  reply 
as  the  forefinger  yielded  to  gentle  pressure  and  fell  by  my 
side  ;  "  and  when  your  mouth  is  empty  I  wish  to  take  you  up 
and  present  you  to  him.  I  will  come  back  for  you  in  a  few 
minutes." 

Forthwith  I  retreated  again  to  my  fastness  to  finish  the  cake 
and  prepare  for  the  ordeal,  curiously  eyeing  the  Transatlantic 
author  all  the  time. 

It  seems  strange,  but  even  now — and  I  have  visited  many 
scenes  and  mixed  with  many  people  since  that  night  —  I  can 
perfectly  remember  the  tenor  of  my  boyish  cogitations.  They 
were  about  as  follows  :  So,  that  was  Mr.  Thackeray  ?  What 
had  I  heard  about  him  ? 

I  knew  that  he  had  written  a  book  called  "Vanity  Fair," 
because  a  charming  lady  (that  is,  she  seemed  charming  to  me 
in  those  halcyon  days)  had  talked  about  it  in  my  hearing,  and 
said  it  was  very  clever.  That  was  all  I  knew.  How  the 
people  pressed  round  him  and  looked  at  him,  while  those 
across  the  room  pointed  and  whispered  !  Was  it,  then,  so 
very  hard  to  write  a  book  ?  How  those  girls  on  the  sofa  were 
pointing,  and  my  guardian  had  just  told  me  it  was  very  rude  to 
point  ! 

I  wonder  if  the  manner  in  which  fame  first  breaks  upon  him 
who  achieves  it  is  the  same  in  which  the  reputation  of  another 
first  looms  upon  the  mind  of  a  thinking  boy  ?  I  had  not  yet 


108  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

learned  that  those  talents  which  win  power  and  position  for 
their  possessor  compel  alike  admiration  from  equals  and  ob 
sequiousness  from  inferiors.  Before  many  years  had  passed 
over  me  I  had  learned  that  lesson  by  heart ;  but  it  is  pleasant 
to  recall  those  independent  hours  when  my  little  mind  indulged 
in  such  unbiased  speculations,  as  heedless  of  the  future  as  the 
sponge-cake  I  had  just  devoured. 

My  guardian  came  back,  and  after  due  inspection  of  hands, 
mouth,  and  clothes,  took  me  up  to  the  chatting  group  between 
the  folding  doors.  The  group  separated,  and  I  stood  face  to 
waistcoat  with  the  great  novelist,  he  looking  kindly  down  on 
me  through  his  glasses  ;  I,  after  gazing  up  in  his  face  for  a 
moment,  dropping  my  eyes  and  beginning  a  minute  inspection 
of  the  watch-chain  with  which  his  left  hand  was  playing,  his 
right  meanwhile  holding  my  little  pair  tight  in  its  mighty 
grasp.  What  he  said  to  me  I  forget.  It  was  probably  more 
his  manner  than  his  words  that  induced  me  to  stay  at  his  side 
and  listen  to  what  others  were  talking  about. 

It  struck  me,  from  his  languid  position,  that,  without  wish 
ing  to  appear  so,  he  was  fatigued,  and  sometimes  a  little  an 
noyed  by  the  trivial  questions  so  often  put  to  him.  At  last  he 
took  me  with  him  across  the  room,  where  he  sat  down  on  a 
sofa,  and  soon  made  me  feel  quite  at  home  beneath  his  genial 
sway.  Some  young  ladies  were  sitting  near,  with  whom  he 
entered  into  some  little  talk  about  music,  and  flowers,  and 
such  things  as  women  love.  Anon,  a  dashing  young  secretary 
of  legation  made  his  appearance  —  keen,  pert,  semi-witty,  just 
from  abroad,  perfectly  satisfied  with  himself,  ready  to  show 
the  latest  fashions  to  all  true  believers.  He  lounged  on  the 
other  end  of  the  sofa,  picked  up  the  thread  of  conversation 
immediately,  and  was  soon  in  the  middle  of  a  fluent  speech, 
oratorically  instructing  everybody.  Mr.  Thackeray  waited 
patiently  till  he  was  through,  rather  glad,  I  think,  to  be  re 
lieved  from  talking  himself,  and  then,  in  reply  to  some  new 
and  extraordinary  doctrine  the  young  diplomat  had  broached, 
laughed  and  said,  "  Bravo,  jeune  homme  !  a  la  bonne  heure  ! 
Vraiment,  on  fait  des  progres  dans  ce  pays  ci !  " 


HODDER'S  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  l^HACKERAY.      IOQ 

Then,  somehow  there  coming  a  little  lull  in  the  noisy  talk, 
he  turned  to  me  and  asked  how  old  I  was,  where  I  lived,  and 
what  I  wanted  to  do  in  the  great  world  some  day  —  whether  I 
had  ever  been  in  England,  and  where  I  had  learned  to  speak 
French  ;  all  which  I  answered,  much  to  his  apparent  amuse 
ment  and  to  the  best  of  my  small  ability. 

Then  came  supper,  when  I  lost  him  in  the  crowd.  If  I  felt 
any  sorrow  at  losing  him,  it  must  have  been  a  boyish  sorrow, 
easily  assuaged  by  the  sight  of  divers  comfits  and  good  things 
on  a  well-spread  table.  I  suppose  there  must  have  been  a 
sense  of  gratified  pride  at  being  noticed  by  a  distinguished 
man  so  publicly.  Perhaps  the  sorrow  has  come  with  maturer 
years.  At  all  events,  I  only  saw  him  again  just  as  he  was  tak 
ing  his  departure,  when  he  turned  and  said  a  few  kind  words 
to  me,  and  then  was  gone. 

HODDER'S  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY. 

In  approaching  the  name  of  William  Makepeace  Thackeray 
I  feel  a  degree  of  delicacy,  and  even  timidity,  which  his  ab 
sence  from  the  scene  of  his  world-wide  renown  does  not  tend 
to  diminish  ;  for  Thackeray  was  a  man  of  such  large  mental 
proportions,  and  such  far-seeing  power  in  his  mode  of  anat 
omizing  and  criticising  human  character,  that  one  seems  to 
be  treading  on  volcanic  ground  in  venturing  to  deal  with  him 
at  all.  But  of  what  is  biography  composed  ?  Assuredly  not 
of  the  knowledge  and  experience  of  one  privileged  person, 
but  of  the  aggregate  contributions  of  many,  who  are  willing, 
when  occasion  offers,  to  state  what  they  know  for  the  infor 
mation  and  benefit  of  posterity.  A  hundred  admirers  of 
Thackeray  might  undertake  to  write  a  memoir  of  him,  and  yet 
the  task  of  doing  full  justice  to  his  character  and  career  must 
necessarily  be  left  to  a  chosen  future  historian,  who  shall  zeal 
ously  gather  together  all  the  bits  and  fragments  to  be  found 
scattered  among  books  and  men,  and  blend  them  into  a  sub 
stantial  and  permanent  shape.  But  it  must  be  admitted  that 
there  is  an  exceptional  difficulty  in  regard  to  Thackeray,  inas 
much  as  there  were  few  whom  he  allowed  to  know  him,  in  the 


1 10  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

true  sense  of  the  phrase  —  that  is  to  say,  there  was  a  constitu 
tional  reserve  in  his  manner,  accompanied,  at  times,  by  a  cold 
austerity,  which  led  to  some  misgivings  as  to  the  possibility  of 
his  being  the  pleasant  social  companion  his  intimates  often 
described  him  to  be.  And  yet  it  is  well  known  to  those  who 
saw  much  of  Thackeray  in  his  familiar  moments  that  he  could 
be  essentially  "  jolly  "  (a  favorite  term  of  his)  when  the  humor 
suited  him,  and  that  he  would,  on  such  occasions,  open  his 
heart  as  freely  as  if  the  word  "  reticence  "  formed  no  part  of 
his  vocabulary  ;  whereas,  at  other  times,  he  would  keep  him 
self  entirely  within  himself,  and  answer  a  question  by  a  mono 
syllable,  or  peradventure  by  a  significant  movement  of  the 
head.  At  one  moment  he  would  look  you  full  in  the  face  and 
greet  you  jauntily ;  at  another  he  would  turn  from  you  with  a 
peculiar  waving  of  the  hand,  which  of  course  indicated  that  he 
had  no  desire  to  talk.  Men  who  were  members  of  the  same 
club  with  him  have  been  heard  to  say  that  sometimes  he  would 
pass  them  in  the  lobbies  unnoticed,  and  at  others  he  would 
cheerfully  initiate  a  conversation,  and  leave  behind  him  an 
impression  that  sullenness  or  hauteur  was  wholly  foreign  to 
his  nature.  It  should  be  stated,  however,  that  his  health  for 
many  years  had  never  been  entirely  unimpaired,  and  that  his 
acute  sensibility  often  rendered  it  irksome  to  him  to  come  in 
contact  with  his  fellow-men.  In  short,  he  was  essentially  of  a 
nervous  temperament,  and  altogether  deficient  in  that  vigorous 
self-possession  which  enables  a  man  to  shine  in  public  assem 
blies  ;  for  it  was  absolute  pain  to  him  to  be  called  upon  to 
make  a  speech,  and  even  in  ordinary  conversation  he  showed 
no  particular  desire  to  hold  a  prominent  place.  But,  the 
above  considerations  apart,  it  would  be  easier  to  know  many 
men  in  a  few  days  than  it  would  be  thoroughly  to  understand  ' 
Thackeray  in  the  same  number  of  years.  Douglas  Jerrold, 
dating  his  acquaintance  with  Thackeray  from  the  time  that  the 
latter,  by  some  curious  hazard,  illustrated  his  book  of  "  Men  of 
Character,"  was  often  heard  to  say,  "  I  have  known  Thackeray 
eighteen  years,  and  I  don't  know  him  yet."  But  that  the  great 
novelist  and  satirist  had  a  generous  and  sympathetic  heart  can 


HODDER'S  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  TH ACKER  A  Y.      Ill 

hardly,  I  think,  be  disputed  ;  and  even  the  few  brief  letters 
which  I  received  from  him  are  sufficient  to  prove  that,  how 
ever  austere  he  sometimes  appeared  to  be  externally,  he  was 
very  rarely  wanting  in  readiness  to  perform  a  kind  office. 

At  one  period  of  my  intercourse  with  Mr.  Thackeray  I  had 
been  reading  his  "Journey  from  Cornhill  to  Grand  Cairo," 
and,  having  always  been  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  his  writ 
ings,  long  before  I  knew  that  the  "  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh  " 
of  "  Eraser's  Magazine  "  was  identical  with  W.  M.  Thackeray, 
I  could  not  refrain  from  expressing  to  him  by  letter  the  delight 
I  had  drawn  from  his  Egyptian  pages.  Among  other  things, 
I  remember  being  deeply  impressed  by  the  graphic  power  dis 
played  in  the  poem  of  "  The  White  Squall,"  and  by  the  charm 
ing  burst  of  parental  feeling  with  which  it  concludes.1 

Mr.  Thackeray's  answer  was  as  follows  :  — 

"  DEAR  HODDER,  —  I  thank  you  very  much  for  your  note, 
and  am  very  glad  that  my  little  book  has  given  you  pleasure. 
I  hope  that  the  future  works  of  the  same  author  will  please 
you,  and,  indeed,  am  quite  anxious  to  have  as  many  people  as 
may  be  of  your  opinion.  It  is  not  my  intention  to  return  to 
Constantinople  at  present,  and  when  there  I  hope  I  shall  be 
more  moral  than  in  former  days,  and  have  no  desire  to  fling 
the  handkerchief  to  any  members  whatsoever  of  his  Highness's 
seraglio.  Yours  truly, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

I  cannot  at  this  distant  date  precisely  call  to  mind  the 
circumstances  under  which  I  continued,  at  intervals,  to  meet 
Mr.  Thackeray,  but  the  various  letters  I  received  from  him 
contain  the  most  gratifying  proof  that  he  was  always  well 
affected  toward  writers  who  could  not  possibly  aspire  to  his 

1  "  And  when,  its  force  expended, 
The  harmless  storm  was  ended, 
And  as  the  sunrise  splendid 

Came  blushing  o'er  the  sea  ; 
I  thought  as  day  was  breaking, 
My  little  girls  were  waking, 
And  smiling,  and  making 

A  prayer  at  home  for  me." 


1 1 2  WILLIAM  MAKEPEA  CE    THA  CKERA  Y. 

own  rank  in  the  literary  army ;  and  the  following  extract  is 
one  of  the  best  evidences  of  this  fact  I  can  adduce,  because, 
at  the  time  he  wrote  it,  my  knowledge  of  him  did  not  extend 
beyond  that  which  was  derived  from  a  few  brief  conversations 
with  him  at  the  chambers  of  a  friend,  upon  matters  in  no  way 
relating  to  business,  such  as  afterward  brought  me  more 
closely  in  contact  with  him. 

The  letter  refers  to  a  loss  which  had  just  befallen  me,  in 
consequence  of  some  changes  which  had  taken  place  in  a 
newspaper  establishment  with  which  I  was  then  connected. 
It  is  dated  May  19,  1855,  and  says  :  — 

"  I  am  sincerely  sorry  to  hear  of  your  position,  and  send  the 
little  contribution  which  came  so  opportunely  from  another 
friend  whom  I  was  enabled  once  to  help.  When  you  are  well- 
to-do  again  I  know  you  will  pay  it  back,  and  I  dare  say  some 
body  else  will  want  the  money,  which  is  meanwhile  most 
heartily  at  your  service." 

It  was  afterward  explained  to  me  that  Mr.  Thackeray  made 
a  practice  of  acting  upon  the  principle  embodied  in  the  above 
note.  Like  many  other  generous  men,  he  had  always  a  few 
pounds  floating  about  among  friends  and  acquaintances  whom 
he  had  been  able  to  oblige  in  their  necessity,  and  whenever  he 
received  back  money  which  he  had  lent,  he  did  not  put  it  into 
his  pocket  with  a  glow  of  satisfaction  at  having  added  so  much 
to  his  exchequer  ;  but  congratulated  himself  that  he  could 
transfer  the  same  sum  to  another  person  who  he  knew  was  in 
need  of  it. 

To  my  great  satisfaction  I  received  one  evening  a  note  from 
Mr.  Thackeray,  which  I  had  been  expecting  for  several  days, 
as  he  had  promised  to  write  to  me  on  the  subject  ;  but,  as  the 
delay  seemed  ominous,  I  began  to  think  he  had  changed  his 
determination,  and  would  not  require  my  services  as  now 
suggested.  In  this  note,  which  is  dated  Onslow  Square,  Sep 
tember  6,  1855,  he  says,  after  referring  to  other  matters  :  — 

"  I  want  a  little  work  done  in  the  way  of  arranging  papers 
copying  at  the  B.  M.,  etc.  —  if  you  are  free,  and  will  come  here 


HODDER'S  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY.     113 

on  Tuesday  morning  next,  I  can  employ  your  services,  and 
put  some  money  in  your  way." 

To  Onslow  Square  I  accordingly  went  on  the  morning  fixed 
upon,  and  found  Mr.  Thackeray  in  his  study  to  receive  me  ; 
but,  instead  of  entering  upon  business  in  that  part  of  the 
house,  he  took  me  up-stairs  to  his  bedroom,  where  every 
arrangement  had  been  made  for  the  convenience  of  writing.  I 
then  learned  that  he  was  busily  occupied  in  preparing  his 
lectures  on  the  "  Four  Georges,"  and  that  he  had  need  of  an 
amanuensis  to  fill  the  place  of  one  who  was  now  otherwise 
occupied.  In  that  capacity,  it  was  my  task  to  write  to  his 
dictation,  and  to  make  extracts  from  books,  according  to  his 
instructions,  either  at  his  own  house  or  at  the  British  Museum. 
This  duty  called  me  to  his  bedchamber  every  morning,  and,  as 
a  general  rule,  I  found  him  up  and  ready  to  begin  work,  though 
he  was  sometimes  in  doubt  and  difficulty  as  to  whether  he 
should  commence  operations  sitting,  or  standing,  or  walking 
about,  or  lying  down.  Often  he  would  light  a  cigar,  and,  after 
pacing  the  room  for  a  few  minutes,  would  put  the  unsmoked 
remnant  on  the  mantle-piece,  and  resume  his  work  with  in 
creased  cheerfulness,  as  if  he  had  gathered  fresh  inspiration 
from  the  "  gentle  odors  "  of  the  "  sublime  tobacco." 

It  was  not  a  little  amusing  to  observe  the  frequency  with 
which  Mr.  Thackeray,  in  the  moments  of  dictation,  would 
change  his  position,  and  I  could  not  but  think  that  he  seemed 
most  at  his  ease  when  one  would  suppose  he  was  most  uncom 
fortable.  He  was  easy  to  "follow,"  as  his  enunciation  was 
always  clear  and  distinct,  and  he  generally  "  weighed  his 
words  before  he  gave  them  breath,"  so  that  his  amanuensis 
seldom  received  a  check  during  the  progress  of  his  pen.  He 
never  became  energetic,  but  spoke  with  that  calm  deliberation 
which  distinguished  his  public  readings  ;  and  there  was  one 
peculiarity  which,  among  others,  I  especially  remarked,  viz., 
that  when  he  made  a  humorous  point,  which  inevitably  caused 
me  to  laugh,  his  own  countenance  was  unmoved,  like  that  of 
the  comedian  Listen,  who,  as  is  well  known,  looked  as  if  he 


114  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

wondered  what  had  occurred  to  excite  the  risibility  of  his 
audience. 

Many  authors  have  often  declared  that  they  could  not  write 
to  dictation.  Thackeray  was  one  who  could,  and  liked  to  do 
so  ;  and  no  better  proof  need  be  afforded  of  his  power  in  that 
respect  than  is  to  be  found  in  his  "  Four  Georges,"  which  con 
tain  some  of  the  most  thoughtful  and  vigorous  passages  that 
ever  emanated  from  his  brain. 

While  I  was  thus  daily  engaged  with  Mr.  Thackeray  he 
sometimes  required  my  assistance  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  ; 
and  I  call  to  mind  one  Sunday  in  particular  —  I  think  it  was 
the  last  before  he  started  for  America — when  I  found  him  in 
exceptionally  high  spirits,  and  much  more  inclined  to  talk  than 
to  write.  He  spoke  of  the  journey  he  was  about  to  commence, 
and  of  the  money  he  should  probably  make  by  his  readings  in 
America.  He  wanted  a  few  thousands  more,  he  said,  for  he 
had  not  yet  made  enough.  True,  he  added,  that  he  possessed 
a  small  share  of  the  world's  goods,  and  he  was  happy  to  think 
that  he  had  paid  off  one  moiety  of  the  cost  of  his  house  (which 
he  then  occupied),  and  that  he  should  be  able  before  he  left 
the  country  to  discharge  the  remainder  of  the  liability.  He 
then  went  on  to  relate  some  of  his  literary  experiences,  and 
the  circumstances  under  which  his  fortunes  had  improved 
during  the  last  few  years,  observing  that  lecturing  was  cer 
tainly  more  profitable  than  magazine  writing.  He  next  alluded 
to  his  friends,  the  contributors  to  "  Punch,"  and  passed  in  re 
view  many  of  their  virtues  and  idiosyncrasies  ;  and  was  at 
some  pains  to  show  that  he  held  the  humorous  brotherhood  in 
high  esteem. 

In  speaking  of  periodical  literature,  he  said  he  contem 
plated  producing  a  magazine  or  journal  in  his  own  name  after 
his  return  from  America  ;  and  upon  my  venturing  to  observe 
that  I  hoped  he  did  not  intend  to  encourage  the  anonymous 
system  in  regard  to  his  contributors,  as  the  conductors  of 
other  publications  of  the  day  seemed  resolved  to  do,  he  re 
plied,  "  No.  I  think  that 's  hard  lines."  *  Our  conversation 

1  On  his  return  to  England,  the  Cornhill  Magazine  was  started  under  the  editor 
ship  of  Mr.  Thackeray. 


HODDER'S  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  TH ACKER  A  Y.     115 

next  turned  upon  his  mission  to  the  United  States  ;  and  when 
he  hinted  at  the  probability  of  his  taking  a  secretary  with  him, 
as  he  had  done  on  his  former  visit  to  that  country,  I  suggested 
that  I  should  be  delighted  to  fill  that  office,  if  he  had  not  al 
ready  selected  some  one.  He  promised  to  consider  my  sug 
gestion,  and  let  me  know  what  determination  he  had  arrived 
at  ;  but,  in  the  mean  time,  he  feared  he  should  require  a  valet 
more  than  a  secretary.  On  the  following  morning  he  said  he 
had  turned  the  matter  over  in  his  mind,  and  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that,  in  consequence  of  the  state  of  his  health,  he 
should  be  obliged  to  take  a  servant  with  him  instead  of  a 
secretary ;  adding,  dryly,  "  I  can  ask  a  servant  to  hold  a  basin 
to  me  ;  but  I  doubt  if  I  could  so  treat  a  secretary  —  at  least, 
he  might  object."  He  smiled  as  he  made  this  droll  observa 
tion,  but  I  too  well  knew  that  it  was  a  true  word  spoken  in 
jest ;  for  he  was  subject  to  periodical  illnesses  which  rendered 
the  services  of  a  valet  most  essential  to  him  ;  and  the  young 
man  who  filled  that  situation  at  the  time  was  fortunately  one 
in  whom  he  placed  implicit  confidence  ;  and  he  was  thankful 
for  the  gentle  way  in  which  his  servant  tended  him. 

It  was  but  natural  to  suppose  that,  considering  Mr.  Thack 
eray's  popularity  among  his  friends,  and  the  interest  which 
attached  to  the  object  of  his  visit  to  America,  a  desire  would 
be  shown  to  invite  him  to  a  farewell  dinner.  The  project 
being  initiated,  Mr.  Peter  Cunningham  undertook  the  duties 
of  secretary  ;  and  all  the  preliminary  arrangements  were  of 
the  most  satisfactory  kind,  care  being  taken  that  the  party 
should  be  entirely  private,  and  that  it  should  consist  exclu 
sively  of  Mr.  Thackeray's  intimates. 

On  the  morning  of  the  banquet  he  was  in  a  state  of  great 
nervous  anxiety,  saying  that  it  was  very  kind  of  his  friends  to 
give  him  a  dinner,  but  that  he  wished  it  was  over,  for  such 
things  always  set  him  trembling.  "  Besides,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  I  have  to  make  a  speech,  and  what  am  I  to  say  ?  Here, 
take  a  pen  in  your  hand  and  sit  down  ;  and  I  '11  see  if  I  can 
hammer  out  something.  It 's  hammering  now;  I 'm  afraid  it 
will  be  stammering  by  and  by."  I  did  as  he  requested,  and 


Il6  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY, 

he  dictated  with  much  ease  and  fluency  a  speech  —  or  rather 
the  heads  of  a  speech  —  which  he  proposed  delivering  in 
response  to  the  inevitable  toast  of  his  own  health. 

This  was  on  a  morning  in  the  first  week  of  October,  1855, 
and  the  dinner  took  place  at  the  London  Tavern  in  the  even 
ing  of  the  same  day,  the  duties  of  chairman  being  delegated  to. 
Mr.  Charles  Dickens,  who  from  the  very  beginning  of  his 
public  career  had  always  manifested  a  remarkable  aptitude  for 
that  responsible  office. 

The  following  account  of  the  affair  was  afterward  published 
by  a  gentleman  who  was  present  on  the  occasion  :  —  • 

"  The  Thackeray  dinner  was  a  triumph.  Covers,  we  are 
assured,  were  laid  for  sixty ;  and  sixty  and  no  more  sat  down 
precisely  at  the  minute  named  to  do  honor  to  the  great  novel 
ist.  Sixty  very  hearty  shakes  of  the  hand  did  Thackeray  re 
ceive  from  sixty  friends  on  that  occasion  ;  and  hearty  cheers 
from  sixty  vociferous  and  friendly  tongues  followed  the  chair 
man's  —  Mr.  Charles  Dickens  —  proposal  of  his  health,  and 
of  wishes  for  his  speedy  and  successful  return  among  us. 
Dickens  —  the  best  after-dinner  speaker  now  alive  —  was 
never  happier.  He  spoke  as  if  he  was  fully  conscious  that  it 
was  a  great  occasion,  and  that  the  absence  of  even  one  re 
porter  was  a  matter  of  congratulation,  affording  ample  room  to 
unbend.  The  table  was  in  the  shape  of  a  horseshoe,  having 
two  vice-chairmen,  and  this  circumstance  was  wrought  up  and 
played  with  by  Dickens  in  the  true  Sam  Weller  and  Charles 
Dickens  manner.  Thackeray,  who  is  far  from  what  is  called 
a  good  speaker,  outdid  himself.  There  was  his  usual  hesita 
tion  ;  but  this  hesitation  becomes  his  manner  of  speaking  and 
his  matter,  and  is  never  unpleasant  to  his  hearers,  though  it  is, 
we  are  assured,  most  irksome  to  himself.  This  speech  was  full 
of  pathos  and  humor  and  oddity,  with  bits  of  prepared  parts 
imperfectly  recollected,  but  most  happily  made  good  by  the 
felicities  of  the  passing  moment.  Like  the  '  Last  Minstrel,'  , 

'  Each  blank  in  faithless  memory's  void 
The  poet's  glowing  thought  supplied.' 


HODDENS  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY.     1 1/ 

It  was  a  speech  to  remember  for  its  earnestness  of  purpose 
and  its  undoubted  originality.  Then  the  chairman  quitted, 
and  many  near  and  at  a  distance  quitted  with  him.  Thackeray 
was  on  the  move  with  the  chairman,  when,  inspired  by  the 
moment,  Jerrold  took  the  chair,  and  Thackeray  remained. 
Who  is  to  chronicle  what  now  passed  ?  —  what  passages  of 
wit  —  what  neat  and  pleasant  sarcastic  speeches  in  proposing 
healths  —  what  varied  and  pleasant,  aye,  and  at  times,  sarcastic 
acknowledgments  ?  Up  to  the  time  when  Dickens  left,  a  good 
reporter  might  have  given  all,  and  with  ease,  to  future  ages  ; 
but  there  could  be  no  reporting  what  followed.  There  were 
words  too  nimble  and  too  full  of  flame  for  a  dozen  Gurneys, 
all  ears,  to  catch  and  preserve.  Few  will  forget  that  night. 
There  was  an  l  air  of  wit '  about  the  room  for  three  days  after. 
Enough  to  make  the  two  companies,  though  downright  fools, 
right  witty." 

I  am  now  fortunately  enabled  to  give  the  original  draft  of 
the  speech  thus  pictured,  and  which  as  I  have  just  stated,  was 
written  by  me  to  Mr.  Thackeray's  dictation  on  the  morning  of 
the  dinner.  It  will  be  seen,  from  the  occasional  vacant  spaces, 
that  the  writer  of  the  above  was  correct  in  assuming  that  the 
speaker  had  intentionally  left  blanks  with  the  view  of  supply 
ing  them  at  the  moment.  Some  few  sentences  will  be  found 
to  be  quite  incomplete  ;  but  it  is  not  very  difficult  to  conjecture 
how  Mr.  Thackeray  would  fill  them  up  ;  though  I  believe  I  am 
right  in  saying  that  the  speech  as  delivered  fell  far  short  of 
the  speech  as  written.  The  latter  has  never  been  out  of  my 
possession  since  it  came  from  Mr.  Thackeray's  lips  ;  for,  hav 
ing  once  tested  his  power,  and  brought  to  light  the  thoughts 
which  animated  him,  he  did  not  care  for  the  MS.,  and  did  not 
even  read  it.  I  subjoin  it,  ipsissima  verba  :  — 

"  I  know  great  numbers  of  us  here  present  have  been  in 
vited  to  a  neighboring  palace  where  turtle,  champagne,  and  all 
good  things  are  as  plentiful  almost  as  here,  and  where  there 
reigns  a  civic  monarch  with  a  splendid  court  of  officers,  etc.  — 
The  sort  of  greeting  that  I  had  myself  to-day  —  this  splendor, 


Il8  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

etc.  —  the  bevy  in  the  ante-room  —  have  filled  my  bosom  with 
an  elation  with  which  no  doubt  Sir  Francis  Graham  Moon's 
throbs.1  I  am  surrounded  by  respectful  friends,  etc.  —  and  I 
feel  myself  like  a  Lord  Mayor.  To  his  lordship's  delight  and 
magnificence  there  is  a  drawback.  In  the  fountain  of  his  pleas 
ure  there  surges  a  bitter.  He  is  thinking  about  the  9th  of  No 
vember,  and  I  about  the  I3th  of  October.2 

"  Some  years  since,  when  I  was  younger  and  used  to  fre 
quent  jolly  assemblies,  I  wrote  a  Bacchanalian  song,  to  be 
chanted  after  dinner,  etc.  —  I  wish  some  one  would  sing  that 
son'g  now  to  the  tune  of  the  '  Dead  March  in  Saul,'  etc.  —  not 
for  me  —  I  am  miserable  enough  ;  but  for  you,  who  seem  in  a 
great  deal  too  good  spirits.  I  tell  you  I  am  not  —  all  the  drink 
in  Mr.  Bathe's  3  cellar  won't  make  me.  There  may  be  sherry 
there  500  years  old  —  Columbus  may  have  taken  it  out  from 
Cadiz  with  him  when  he  went  to  discover  America,  and  it 
won't  make  me  jolly,  etc.  —  and  yet,  entirely  unsatisfactory  as 
this  feast  is  to  me,  I  should  like  some  more.  Why  can't  you 
give  me  some  more  ?  I  don't  care  about  them  costing  two 
guineas  a  head.  It  is  not  the  turtle  I  value.  Let  us  go  to 
Simpson's  fish  ordinary —  or  to  Bertolini's  or  John  o'Groat's, 
etc.  —  I  don't  want  to  go  away —  I  cling  round  the  mahogany- 
tree. 

"In  the  course  of  my  profound  and  extensive  reading  I  have 
found  it  is  the  habit  of  the  English  nation  to  give  dinners  to 
the  unfortunate.  I  have  been  living  lately  with  some  worthy 
singular  fellows  150  or  160  years  old.  I  find  that  upon  certain 
occasions  the  greatest  attention  was  always  paid  them.  They 
might  call  for  anything  they  liked  for  dinner.  My  friend 
Simon  Frazer,  Lord  Lovat,  about  109  years  since,  I  think, 
partook  very  cheerfully  of  minced  veal  and  sack  before  he 
was  going  on  his  journey  4  —  Lord  Ferrers  (Rice) 5  —  I  could 

1  Sir  F.  G.  Moon,  Bart.,  was  at  that  time  Lord  Mayor  of  London. 

2  The  day  on  which  he  was  to  start  for  America. 

3  The  then  proprietor  of  the  London  Tavern. 

4  He  was  beheaded  in  the  year  1745  for  fighting  in  the  cause  of  the  Pretender,  in 
the  Scottish  rebellion  of  1745. 

6  Executed  at  Tyburn  in  the  year  1760  for  the  murder  of  one  Johnson,  the  re- 


HO  ODER'S  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY.     119 

tell  you  a  dozen  jolly  stories  about  feasts  of  this  sort.  I  re 
member  a  particular  jolly  one  at  which  I  was  present,  and 
which  took  place  at  least  900  years  ago.  My  friend  Mr.  Mac- 
ready  gave  it  at  Fores  Castle,  North  Britain,  Covent  Garden. 
That  was  a  magnificent  affair  indeed.  The  tables  were  piled 
with  most  splendid  fruits — gorgeous  dish-covers  glittered  in 
endless  perspective  —  Macbeth  —  Macready,  I  mean  —  taking 
up  a  huge  gold  beaker,  shining  with  enormous  gems  that  must 
have  been  worth  many  hundred  millions  of  money,  filled  it  out 
of  a  gold  six-gallon  jug,  and  drank  courteously  to  the  general 
health  of  the  whole  table.  Why  did  he  put  it  down  ?  What 
made  him,  in  the  midst  of  that  jolly  party,  appear  so  haggard 
and  melancholy  ?  It  was  because  he  saw  before  him  the 
ghost  of  John  Cooper,  with  chalked  face  and  an  immense 
streak  of  vermilion  painted  across  his  throat  !  No  wonder 
he  was  disturbed.  In  like  manner  I  have  before  me  at  this 
minute  the  horrid  figure  of  a  steward,  with  a  basin  perhaps,  or 
a  glass  of  brandy  and  water,  which  he  will  press  me  to  drink, 
and  which  I  shall  try  and  swallow,  and  which  won't  make  me 
any  better —  I  know  it  won't. 

u  Then  there  's  the  dinner,  which  we  all  of  us  must  remem 
ber  in  our  school-boy  days,  and  which  took  place  twice  or 
thrice  a  year  at  home,  on  the  day  before  Dr.  Birch  expected 
his  young  friends  to  reassemble  at  his  academy,  Rodwell 
Regis.  Don't  you  remember  how  the  morning  was  .  spent  ? 
How  you  went  about  taking  leave  of  the  garden,  and  the  old 
mare  and  foal,  and  the  paddock,  and  the  pointers  in  the  ken 
nel  ;  and  how  your  little  sister  wistfully  kept  at  your  side  all 
day ;  and  how  you  went  and  looked  at  that  confounded  trunk 
which  old  Martha  was  packing  with  the  new  shirts,  and  at 
that  heavy  cake  packed  up  in  the  play-box  ;  and  how  kind 
6  the  governor  '  was  all  day  ;  and  how  at  dinner  he  said,  '  Jack 
—  or  Tom  —  pass  the  bottle  '  in  a  very  cheery  voice  ;  and 

ceiver  of  his  estates.  His  lordship  was  allowed  to  ride  from  the  Tower  to  the  scaf 
fold  in  his  own  landau,  and  appeared  gayly  dressed  in  a  light-colored  suit  of  clothes, 
embroidered  with  silver.  It  was  doubtless  to  this  circumstance  that  Mr.  Thackeray 
intended  to  allude  in  filling  up  the  vacuum. 


I2O  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

how  your  mother  had  got  the  dishes  she  knew  you  liked  best ; 
and  how  you  had  the  wing  instead  of  the  leg,  which  used  to 
be  your  ordinary  share  ;  and  how  that  dear,  delightful,  hot 
raspberry  rolly-polly  pudding,  good  as  it  was,  and  fondly  be 
loved  by  you,  yet  somehow  had  the  effect  of  the  notorious 
school  stick-jaw,  and  choked  you  and  stuck  in  your  throat  ; 
and  how  the  gig  came  ;  and  then,  how  you  heard  the  whirl  of 
the  mail-coach  wheels,  and  the  tooting  of  the  guard's  horn,  as 
with  an  odious  punctuality  the  mail  and  the  four  horses  came 
galloping  over  the  hill.  —  Shake  hands,  good-by  !  God  bless 
everybody  !  Don't  cry,  sister.  —  Away  we  go  !  and  to 
morrow  we  begin  with  Dr.  Birch,  and  six  months  at  Rodwell 
Regis  ! 

"  But  after  six  months  came  the  holidays  again  ! l  etc..  etc., 
etc." 

There  is  small  chance  of  it  being  denied  that  the  above  is 
as  fully  characteristic  of  Mr.  Thackeray's  peculiar  style  as 
any  passage  to  be  found  in  his  works.  Not  a  doubt  or  ques 
tion  could  possibly  be  raised  in  regard  to  its  authorship  ;  for 
there  spoke  Thackeray  in  his  own  original  way  —  heart,  lips, 
tone,  and  language. 

That  Mr.  Thackeray  was  sometimes  given  to  the  "  melting 
mood  "  may  be  shown  by  a  little  incident,  in  the  relation  of 
which  I  trust  I  shall  violate  no  confidence,  or  throw  myself 
open  to  the  charge  of  ascribing  to  the  great  author  a  larger 
share  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  than  often  falls  to  the  lot 
of  ordinary  mortals. 

One  morning  I  was  making  my  way  to  36  Onslow  Square, 
at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual,  when,  to  my  great  surprise,  I 
met  Mr.  Thackeray  pacing  up  and  down  the  footway  in  a  state 
of  great  mental  uneasiness.  It  was  so  entirely  contrary  to  his 
custom  —  at  least  as  far  as  my  experience  told  me  —  to  leave 
his  house  at  so  early  an  hour,  and  I  was  so  much  concerned 
at  seeing  him  in  such  depression,  that  I  was  naturally  induced 
to  say  that  I  hoped  nothing  very  serious  had  happened  to  his 

1  Mr.  Thackeray  was  to  be  absent  from  England  for  that  space  of  time. 


HODDER'S  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY.     121 

household.  He  answered,  "  Poor  Marochetti's  child  is  dying." 
Having  said  this,  tears  came  to  his  relief,  and  he  speedily  re 
turned  home.  He  was  on  terms  of  close  friendship  with  the 
Baron  Marochetti  (his  next-door  neighbor),  and  he  sympa 
thized  with  that  well-known  sculptor  in  the  deep  love  he  bore 
for  his  dying  child.  He  was  in  a  cheerless  mood  for  the  re 
mainder  of  the  day,  and  in  the  course  of  his  work  reverted 
many  times  to  the  calamity  which  he  so  much  deplored.1 

Again,  on  the  morning  of  his  departure  for  America.  He 
was  to  start  by  an  early  train,  and  when  I  arrived  (for  it  had 
been  previously  arranged  that  I  should  see  him  before  he  left) 
I  found  him  in  his  study,  and  his  two  daughters  in  the  dining- 
room  —  all  in  a  very  tearful  condition  ;  and  I  do  not  think  I 
am  far  wrong  in  saying  that  if  ever  man's  strength  was  over 
powered  by  woman's  weakness  it  was  so  upon  this  occasion  ; 
for  Mr.  Thackeray  could  not  look  at  his  daughters  without 
betraying  a  moisture  in  his  eyes,  which  he  in  vain  strove  to 
conceal.  Nevertheless  he  was  enabled  to  attend  to  several 
money  transactions  which  it  was  necessary  he  should  arrange 
before  leaving  ;  and  to  give  me  certain  instructions  about  the 
four  volumes  of  his  "  Miscellanies  "  then  in  course  of  publica 
tion,  and  which  he  begged  me  to  watch  in  their  passage 
through  the  press,  with  a  view  to  a  few  foot-notes  that  might 
be  thought  desirable.  Then  came  the  hour  for  parting  !  A 
cab  was  at  the  door,  the  luggage  had  all  been  properly  dis 
posed  of,  and  the  servants  stood  in  the  hall,  to  notify,  by  their 
looks,  how  much  they  regretted  their  master's  departure. 
"  This  is  the  moment  I  have  dreaded  ! "  said  Thackeray,  as 
he  entered  the  dining-room  to  embrace  his  daughters  ;  and 
when  he  hastily  descended  the  steps  of  the  door  he  knew  that 
they  would  be  at  the  window  to 

"  Cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind." 

"  Good-by,"  he  murmured,  in  a  suppressed  voice,  as  I  fol 
lowed  him  to  the  cab  ;  "  keep  close  behind  me,  and  let  me  try 
to  jump  in  unseen." 

1  It  will  be  recollected  that  the  tablet  to  Thackeray's  memory  in  Westminster  Ab 
bey  was  the  design  and  workmanship  of  the  late  Baron  Marochetti. 


122  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

The  instant  the  door  of  the  vehicle  was  closed  behind  him 
he  threw  himself  back  into  a  corner  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands.  That  was  the  last  I  saw  of  Mr.  Thackeray  before  he 
left  London  on  his  second  visit  to  the  United  States  ;  and  I 
think  I  have  given  sufficient  proof  that,  great  as  was  his  power 
of  poising  the  shafts  of  ridicule  at  the  follies  and  vices  of  the 
day,  and  coldly  reserved  as  he  sometimes  was  in  his  de 
meanor,  he  was  full  of  that  gentleness  of  heart  to  which  his 
writings  constantly  bear  testimony ;  and  it  was  his  instinct  to 
be  actuated  by  the  kindliest  impulses  which  do  honor  to  our 
common  nature. 

On  Mr.  Thackeray's  return  from  a  successful  tour  in  the 
United  States,  he  sought  to  make  arrangements  for  the  read 
ing  of  his  lectures  on  "  The  Four  Georges  "  in  London  and 
the  provinces.  He  had  fulfilled  his  purpose  of  delivering 
them  in  America  in  the  first  instance,  and  he  had  now  no 
reason  to  think  that  they  would  not  be  listened  to  with  satis 
faction  in  his  own  country.  To  undertake  the  responsibility 
of  organizing  any  plan  of  proceeding,  of  appointing  agents,  of 
superintending  the  publication  of  advertisements,  and  settling 
the  various  other  preliminary  matters  incidental  to  what  is 
technically  called  a  "  lecturing  tour,"  was,  of  course,  more 
than  could  possibly  be  expected  from  a  man  of  Mr.  Thack 
eray's  intellectual  calibre.  It  soon,  therefore,  became  known 
that  he  was  "  in  the  market,"  as  it  were,  ready  to  accept  en 
gagements  for  the  reading  of  his  lectures  ;  and  Mr.  Frederick 
Beale,  belonging  to  a  musical  firm  of  some  note,  expressed 
his  desire  to  Mr.  Thackeray,  through  me,  to  make  the  specu 
lation  his  own,  and  to  "  farm  "  the  lecturer  at  a  given  sum  for 
each  reading.  Mr.  Thackeray  appeared  pleased  at  the  propo 
sition,  and  a  morning  was  appointed  for  Mr.  Beale  to  accom 
pany  me  to  his  house,  with  a  view  of  my  introducing  him  to 
the  celebrated  writer,  and  witnessing  the  arrangement  of  the 
terms. 

Mr.  Thackeray  was  in  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  and 
received  us  in  his  bedroom,  where,  as  I  have  already  stated, 
he  generally  passed  his  mornings  and  wrote  his  books.  His 


HOD  DEWS  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY.     123 

study  being  a  small  back-room  behind  the  dining-room,  on  the 
ground  floor,  and  being  exposed  to  the  noises  from  the  street, 
he  had  caused  his  writing-table  and  appliances  to  be  carried 
up-stairs  to  the  second  floor,  where  two  rooms  had  been 
thrown  into  one  —  the  back  to  be  used  as  a  sleeping-chamber, 
and  the  front,  which  was  considerably  larger  than  the  other, 
as  a  sitting-room.  The  dimensions  of  this  apartment  being 
capacious,  Mr.  Thackeray  was  enabled  to  move  about  in  the 
intervals  of  writing,  and  to  extend  his  limbs  on  a  couch  ;  and, 
in  fine,  to  change  his  attitude  as  often  as  his  convenience  de 
manded,  for  the  operation  of  dictating  necessarily  spared  him 
the  pain  of  confining  himself  to  a  sitting  posture.  On  the 
morning  in  question  some  domestic  annoyance  had  ruffled  the 
serenity  of  his  mind  ;  and  it  was  evident,  from  the  abruptness 
of  his  manner,  that  he  had  no  idea  of  being  other  than  thor 
oughly  "  business-like  "  in  the  negotiations  we  were  about  to 
commence.  After  a  little  preparatory  interchange  of  civilities 
(which  it  was  pretty  evident  Mr.  Thackeray  would  have  de 
scribed  as  a  "  bore  "  had  it  been  possible  to  ascertain  his 
candid  opinion  at  the  moment),  Mr.  Beale,  in  his  usual  cour 
teous  manner,  suggested  the  terms  himself  ;  and  Mr.  Thack 
eray,  like  a  true  diplomatist  as  he  was,  never  allowed  it  to  be 
supposed  that  he  thought  them  more  than  reasonably  remu 
nerative. 

The  payment  proposed  was  fifty  guineas  for  each  reading, 
and  Mr.  Thackeray  was  to  appear  a  certain  number  of  times 
in  London  —  at  the  Surrey  Music  Hall,  for  instance — and  to 
undertake  a  tour  of  three  weeks  in  the  provinces.  That  he 
was  well  satisfied  with  his  arrangement  with  Mr.  Beale  is  best 
proved  by  the  fact  that,  when  he  saw  me  on  the  following  day, 
he  exclaimed,  "  What  terms  !  fifty  guineas  a  night !  Why,  I 
should  n't  have  received  one  half  that  sum  for  an  article  in 
'  Fraser '  a  few  years  ago." 

As  I  was  travelling  entirely  in  an  official  character,  and  was 
not  responsible  to  Mr.  Thackeray,  I  studiously  avoided  forcing 
myself  on  his  company,  but  always  took  especial  care  to  select 
a  carriage  he  did  not  occupy,  and  to  plant  myself  in  an  hotel 


124  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

he  did  not  patronize.  Hence  —  if  I  may  speak  paradoxically 
—  we  pulled  remarkably  well  together  ;  and  although  the  ar 
rangements  for  a  public  reading  every  evening  at  eight  o'clock 
left  little  opportunity  for  social  enjoyment  —  that  is  to  say,  at 
a  time  when  it  would  be  most  in  accordance  with  his  usual 
habit  —  Mr.  Thackeray  occasionally  invited  me  to  dine  with 
him.  "This  is  a  nice  room,"  he  would  say,  if  the  apartment 
allotted  to  him  chanced  to  have  a  rural  aspect,  with  trees  and 
flowers  bobbing  in  at  the  window  ;  "  I  could  write  here  !  "  And 
where  was  it,  ft  may  be  asked,  that  he  could  not  write  ?  for  the 
twenty-two  handsome  volumes  of  his  works  lately  issued  bear 
sufficient  presumptive  evidence  that  his  labor  was  done  in 
various  places  and  climes.  May  it  not  be  fairly  supposed  that 
Titmarsh's  "  Carmen  Lilliense,"  date  Lille,  September  2,  1843, 
and  published  in  "  Eraser's  Magazine,"  was  written  on  the 
identical  spot  where  he  was  visited  by  the  sad  pecuniary  mis 
fortune  which  he  so  humorously  deplores  in  the  refrain  of  the 
ballad  ? 

"  My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone ; 

How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 
I  have  no  money  ;  I  lie  in  pawn, 
A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille." 

At  the  time  of  the  publication  of  "  Vanity  Fair,"  Thack 
eray's  great  contemporary,  Charles  Dickens  (for  in  spite  of  all 
remonstrance  it  has  always  been  the  fashion  to  place  the  two 
writers  in  the  same  category,  and  often  to  sacrifice  one  at  the 
shrine  of  the  other,  according  to  the  particular  taste  of  the 
person  addressing  himself  to  the  subject),  was  producing,  in 
the  accustomed  monthly  form  —  the  green  cover  in  the  one 
instance,  against  the  yellow  cover  in  the  other  —  his  story  of 
"  Doinbey  and  Son  ;  "  and  it  was  Thackeray's  delight  to  read 
each  number  with  eagerness  as  it  issued  from  the  press.  He 
had  often  been  heard  to  speak  of  the  work  in  terms  of  the 
highest  praise.  When  it  had  reached  its  fifth  number,  wherein 
Mr.  Charles  Dickens  described  the  end  of  little  Paul  with  a 
depth  of  pathos  which  produced  a  vibratory  emotion  in  the 
hearts  of  all  who  read  it,  Mr.  Thackeray  seemed  electrified 


HODDERS  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY.     12$ 

at  the  thought  that  there  was  one  man  living  who  could  exer 
cise  so  complete  a  control  over  him.  Putting  No.  5  of  "  Dom- 
bey  and  Son  "  in  his  pocket,  he  hastened  down  to  Mr.  Punch's 
printing-office,  and  entering  the  editor's  room,  where  I  chanced 
to  be  the  only  person  present  except  Mr.  Mark  Lemon  him 
self,  he  dashed  it  on  the  table  with  startling  vehemence,  and 
exclaimed,  "  There  's  no  writing  against  such  power  as  this 
—  one  has  no  chance  !  Read  that  chapter  describing  young 
Paul's  death  :  it  is  unsurpassed  —  it  is  stupendous  !  " 

Long  after  this,  and  during  the  period  that  I  acted  as  his 
amanuensis,  I  went  into  his  chamber  one  morning,  as  usual, 
and  found  him  in  bed  (for,  lest  it  should  be  supposed  that  Mr. 
Thackeray  was  what  is  commonly  called  a  late  riser,  I  should 
state  at  once  that  my  visits  to  him  were  somewhat  early,  that 
is  to  say,  before  nine  o'clock),  a  little  pot  of  tea  and  some  dry 
toast  on  a  table  by  his  side.  I  therefore  remained  at  a  dis 
tance  from  him,  but  Mr.  Thackeray  called  me  forward,  and  I 
discovered  that  he  had  passed  a  very  restless  night.  "  I  am 
sorry,"  said  I,  "  that  you  do  not  seem  very  well  this  morning." 
"  Well!"  he  murmured  —  "  no,  I  am  not  well.  I  have  got  to 
make  that  confounded  speech  to-night."  I  immediately  recol 
lected  that  he  was  to  preside  at  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Gen 
eral  Theatrical  Fund  —  an  undertaking  which  I  well  knew  was 
entirely  repugnant  to  his  taste  and  wishes.  "  Don't  let  that 
trouble  you,  Mr.  Thackeray,"  said  I  ;  "  you  will  be  sure  to  be 
all  right  when  the  time  comes."  "  Nonsense  ! "  he  replied, 
"  it  won't  come  all  right  —  I  can't  make  a  speech.  Confound 
it  !  That  fellow  Jackson  let  me  in  for  this  !  Why  don't  they 
get  Dickens  to  take  the  chair  ?  He  can  make  a  speech,  and  a 
good  one.  /';;/  of  no  use."  I  told  him  that  I  thoroughly  ap 
preciated  his  remark  in  regard  to  Mr.  Dickens,  but  that  at  the 
same  time  he  was  giving  little  credit  to  those  whose  discern 
ment  had  selected  him  as  the  chairman  of  the  evening  ;  and 
they  could  not  very  well  ask  Mr.  Dickens,  as  he  had  only  a 
year  or  two  since  occupied  that  position  at  an  anniversary  din 
ner  of  the  same  institution.  "  They  little  think  how  nervous  I 
am,"  said  Thackeray  ;  "  and  Dickens  does  n't  know  the  mean 
ing  of  the  word." 


1 26  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERA  Y. 

In  confirmation  of  this  remark  I  observed  that  I  once  asked 
Mr.  Dickens  if  he  ever  felt  nervous  on  public  occasions  when 
called  upon  to  speak  ;  and  his  instant  reply  was,  "  Not  in  the 
least.  The  first  time  I  took  the  chair  at  a  public  dinner  I  felt 
just  as  much  confidence  as  if  I  had  done  the  same  thing  a 
hundred  times  before."  1 

The  result  of  Mr.  Thackeray's  chairmanship  on  the  even 
ing  in  question  may  here  be  recorded,  with  all  respect  to  his 
memory,  and  with  that  desire  to  be  strictly  correct  which  he 
himself  would  have  been  the  first  to  encourage.  True  to  his 
engagement  he  took  the  post  assigned  to  him,  and  com 
menced  his  duties  as  if  he  had  resolved  to  set  difficulties  at 
defiance,  and  to  show  that  the  task  was  not  quite  impossible 
with  him  ;  but,  unhappily  for  his  nervous  and  sensitive  tem 
perament,  Mr.  Charles  Dickens,  as  the  president  of  the  insti 
tution,  sat  at  his  right  hand,  and  when  he  came  to  the  all-ab 
sorbing  toast  of  the  evening,  the  terrifying  fact  rushed  across 
his  mind  that  his  great  contemporary  would  witness  all  his 
short-comings  and  his  sad  inferiority.  He  had  prepared  his 
speech,  and  he  commenced  with  some  learned  allusions  to  the 
car  of  Thespis  and  the  early  history  of  the  drama,  when  he 
suddenly  collapsed,  and  brought  his  address  to  a  close  in  a 
few  commonplace  observations  which  could  scarcely  be  called 
coherent.  He  too  painfully  felt  the  weakness  of  his  position  ; 
and  notwithstanding  a  particularly  kind  and  complimentary 
speech  in  which  Mr.  Dickens  proposed  his  health  as  chair 
man,  he  could  not  recover  the  prestige  he  believed  he  had  lost, 
and  he  left  the  room  in  company  with  an  old  friend  at  as  early 
a  moment  as  he  could  consistently  with  the  respect  he  owed 
to  the  company. 

One  other  instance  I  may  mention  of  the  many  which  came 

1  Charles  Dickens  is  as  happy  at  intimate  social  gatherings  as  on  great  public  oc 
casions.  A  dinner  was  given  to  his  eldest  son  on  the  occasion  of  his  departure  for 
China  on  a  commercial  mission.  Blanchard  Jerrold  was  in  the  chair,  with  Mr. 
Dickens  on  his  left,  and  the  guest  of  the  evening  on  his  right.  The  young  gentleman 
became  warmed  with  the  wine ;  whereupon  Dickens,  in  returning  thanks  for  his  own 
health,  took  the  opportunity  of  observing  that  after  such  a  generous  dinrer  "  a  little 
transaction  in  tea"  would  do  his  son  a  world  of  good. 


HODDEFS  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY.     12  J 

within  my  own  knowledge  of  Mr.  Thackeray's  distrust  of  his 
own  powers  and  his  desire  to  exalt  others  at  the  expense  of 
himself.  I  found  him  one  morning  in  an  unusually  loquacious 
mood,  and  I  had  not  been  with  him  many  minutes  before  he 
said  he  was  not  disposed  to  'trouble  himself  with  any  work 
that  day.  He  was  more  inclined  to  talk.  Adverting  by  a  nat 
ural  transition  from  the  subject  he  had  first  touched  upon  to 
the  respective  merits  of  various  writers  who  were  then  daily 
before  the  world,  he  spoke  of  the  great  success  of  "  House 
hold  Words,"  and  of  the  ability  displayed  in  its  pages  by  some 
of  its  contributors.  "  There  's  one  man,"  for  instance,  he  em 
phatically  exclaimed,  "  who  is  a  very  clever  fellow,  and  that  is 
Sala.  That  paper  of  his,  *  The  Key  of  the  Street,'  is  one  of 
the  best  things  I  ever  read.  I  could  n't  have  written  it.  I 
wish  I  could." 

It  was  a  common  practice  in  the  towns  we  visited  for  quid 
nuncs,  ambitious  dowagers,  and  aspiring  damsels  pertaining 
to  the  order  of  blue-stockings,  to  pester  Mr.  Thackeray  at  the 
close  of  his  lecture  to  insert  his  autograph  in  an  album  —  a 
request  with  which  he  was  not  often  willing  to  comply.  On 
one  occasion  an  album  was  placed  before  him  by  a  young  fel 
low,  who  thought  to  tempt  him  by  calling  attention  to  the  fact 
that  the  signatures  of  several  distinguished  musicians,  includ 
ing  that  of  one  of  our  most  celebrated  tenors,  were  in  the 
same  book,  and  that  therefore  he  would  be  in  very  good  com 
pany.  "  What  !  among  all  these  fiddlers  !  "  exclaimed  Thack 
eray,  with  pretended  raillery.  Having  uttered  the  somewhat 
brusque  phrase,  he  could  not  well  do  otherwise  than  satisfy 
the  desire  expressed  ;  but  he  would  not  be  prevailed  upon  to 
write  more  than  the  simple  signature  —  "W.  M.  Thackeray." 
On  another  occasion  the  possessor  of  an  album  was  much 
more  fortunate.  It  belonged  to  a  young  lady  of  my  acquaint 
ance,  and  I  had  pleaded  her  cause  so  warmly  that  Mr.  Thack 
eray  opened  the  book,  and  I  pointed  out  to  him  the  names  of 
certain  contributors  with  whom  I  thought  he  might  not  object 
to  be  thus  associated.  He  assented,  and  took  the  book  home 


128  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

to  his  hotel,  in  order  that  he  might  have  time  to  scan  its  con 
tents.     Among  these  he  soon  discovered  the  subjoined  lines  : 

"  Mont  Blanc  is  the  Monarch  of  Mountains  — 

They  crown 'd  him  long  ago  ; 
But  who  they  got  to  put  it  on 
Nobody  seems  to  know. 

"  ALBERT  SMITH.'- 

Under  these  lines  Mr.  Thackeray  speedily  wrote  the  follow 
ing  :  — 

UA    HUMBLE   SUGGESTION. 

"  I  know  that  Albert  wrote  in  hurry  : 

To  criticise  I  scarce  presume  ; 
But  yet  methinks  that  Lindley  Murray, 
Instead  of  '  who,'  had  written  whom. 

11  W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

I  need  scarcely  say  that  the  young  lady  felt  she  had  brought 
her  album  to  a  "very  good  market,"  and  she  could  never 
afterward  believe  that  Mr.  Thackeray  was  other  than  the  most 
amiable  of  authors  and  the  most  considerate  of  men. 

If  I  remember  rightly,  Mr.  Thackeray's  engagement  at 
Norwich  required  him  to  give  four  readings  —  that  is  to  say, 
he  was  to  introduce  all  "  The  Four  Georges  "  —  one  each 
night  —  to  the  people  of  that  city.  He  was  received  with 
much  cordiality  in  that  bustling  capital,  and  his  lectures  were 
attended  with  a  success  justly  proportioned  to  their  merit  ; 
but  it  was  evident  that  his  health  was  much  impaired,  and 
that  he  was  about  to  endure  one  of  those  sad  periodical  at 
tacks  to  which  he  had  long  been  liable.  On  the  concluding 
night  of  the  series  he  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  to  the 
Hall  by  the  usual  time,  and  when  arrived  there  he  was  in 
great  nervous  trepidation,  and  expressed  his  fear  that  he 
should  be  quite  unable  to  get  through  his  work.  I  said  what 
I  could  to  make  him  more  hopeful  and  cheerful,  and  when  he 
made  his  appearance  on  the  platform  he  was  greeted  with 
such  a  storm  of  applause,  that  he  proceeded  in  his  task  with 
scarcely  less  vigor  than  he  generally  displayed  ;  but  as  he  ap 
proached  the  end  of  his  discourse  his  voice  faltered,  and  it 
was  a  severe  struggle  to  him  to  reach  the  final  sentence. 


ff ODDER1  S  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY.     12$ 

On  the  following  morning,  at  an  early  hour,  I  received  a 
message  from  him  requesting  that  I  would  go  and  see  him  at 
his  hotel,  as  he  was  laid  up  with  one  of  his  violent  attacks.  I 
lost  no  time  in  obeying  his  wish,  and  on  entering  his  chamber 
I  was  much  shocked  to  see  him  lying  closely  covered  up  in 
bed.  He  was  suffering  great  pain,  and  begged  that  I  would 
not  look  at  him,  as  he  knew  he  was  a  hideous  object.  I  en 
treated  that  he  would  place  my  services  entirely  at  his  com 
mand,  and  he  replied,  with  a  waving  of  his  hand,  that  all  he. 
wanted  was  some  money  out  of  the  exchequer  in  my  posses 
sion,  as  he  should  unfortunately  be  detained  there  by  his  ill 
ness.  The  desire  was  of  course  immediately  satisfied,  and  he 
would  not  listen  to  me  when  I  asked  him  to  allow  me  to  re 
main  with  him.  It  was  beyond  question  under  such  a  seizure 
as  he  was  then  afflicted  with  that  he  retired  to  his  bed  on  that 
mournful  night  in  December,  1863,  when  he  endured  his  suf 
ferings  for  the  last  time. 

Some  short  period  after  I  had  left  Mr.  Thackeray  at  Nor 
wich  in  the  condition  described,  I  saw  him  at  his  house  in 
London,  and  on  his  making  allusion  to  those  dreadful  illnesses 
which  he  said  were  the  very  bane  of  his  life,  I  asked  if  he  had 
ever  received  the  best  medical  advice.  Certainly  he  had,  was 
his  reply  :  "  but  what  is  the  use  of  advice,  if  you  don't  follow 
it  ? "  he  continued.  "  They  tell  me  not  to  drink,  and  I  do 
drink.  They  tell  me  not  to  smoke,  and  I  do  smoke.  They 
tell  me  not  to  eat,  and  I  do  eat.  In  short,  I  do  everything 
that  I  am  desired  not  to  do,  and,  therefore,  what  am  I  to  ex 
pect  ? " 

As  I  was  brought  little  in  contact  with  Mr.  Thackeray  from 
this  -time  forth,  except  in  the  lobby  of  the  Reform  Club 
(where,  on  occasions  when  I  was  waiting  for  a  friend  who  was 
a  member,  I  enjoyed  the  sight  of  forbidden  luxuries),  or  on 
the  steps  of  the  Garrick,  or  sauntering  along  Pall  Mall  in  that 
insouciant  manner  which  was  becoming  as  familiar  at  the 
West  of  London  as  Johnson's  "  rolling  walk  "  was  in  Fleet 
Street,  I  shall  not  weary  the  reader  with  any  details  as  to 
what  might,  could,  would,  or  should  have  happened  in  connec- 
9 


130  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

tion  with  his  every-day  life.  My  sole  object  has  been  to 
place  him  before  the  reader  precisely  as  I  saw  him,  and  to  jot 
down  such  things  as  appeared  to  have  some  'ittle  historical 
interest.  The  most  memorable  event  I  can  now  call  to  mind, 
in  relation  to  Mr.  Thackeray,  is  at  the  same  time  the  most 
melancholy  one,  for  it  brings  me  to  the  morning  of  Christmas- 
day,  1863,  when  I  chanced  to  pay  a  visit  to  Horace  Mayhew, 
in  Old  Bond  Street.  I  entered  the  room  cheerfully, 

"As  fits  the  merry  Christmas-time," 

and  proffered  the  usual  good  wishes  to  Mayhew  and  another 
friend  who  was  present  ;  but  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  my 
animal  spirits  met  with  no  response,  and  that  my  compan 
ions  were  as  depressed  as  I  was  inclined  to  be  the  reverse. 
"  Have  n't  you  heard  ?  "  said  Mayhew,  looking  ominously  blank 
and  chop-fallen.  "Heard!"  I  exclaimed;  "heard  what?" 
"  Why,  about  poor  Thackeray  ?  "  "  No  ;  what  about  him  ? " 
"  He  's  dead  !  "  "  What  !  "  I  cried,  almost  petrified  ;  "  our 
Thackeray,  the  great  Thackeray?"  "Yes,"  he  said,  "too 
true.  William  Makepeace  Thackeray :  he  died  yesterday 
morning,  or  on  the  previous  night."  This  was  indeed  a 
piece  of  news  as  saddening  as  it  was  unexpected,  and  when 
it  was  revealed  to  me  I  was  dumb  with  an  emotion  which 
it  would  have  been  affectation  in  me  to  endeavor  to  disguise. 
As  to  Horace  Mayhew,  he  had  formed  an  affection  for  Thack 
eray  which  on  that  occasion  expressed  itself  in  accents  of  the 
most  bitter  grief. 

It  was  soon  explained  that  the  lamented  writer  was  found 
dead  in  his  bed  on  Christmas-eve,  and  that  the  immediate 
cause  of  his  disease  was  an  effusion  of  blood  on  the  brain, 
brought  on  by  one  of  those  violent  stomach  afflictions  to  which 
I  have  already  referred.  I  could  not  but  remark  what  a  deep 
gloom  the  event  would  cast  over  many  an  otherwise  happy  fire 
side  at  that  festive  period  ;  and  I  was  afterward  led  to  the  re 
flection  that  the  line  above  quoted  would  now  too  painfully 
bear  the  second  reading  given  to  it  by  the  author  — 

"As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide." 


HODDER'S  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY.     131 

The  line  occurs  in  the  last  stanza  of  a  little  poem  called  "  The 
End  of  the  Play,"  with  which  Mr.  Thackeray's  Christmas 
book,  "  Dr.  Birch  and  his  Young  Friends,"  closes  ;  and  as  its 
plaintive  tone  of  farewell  would  seem  to  be  especially  in  har 
mony  with  the  author's  removal  from  the  scene,  I  will  quote 
the  entire  verse  :  — 

"  My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth ; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 
And  wish  for  health  and  love  and  mirth, 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still  — 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will." 

He  laid  the  weary  pen  aside  !  If  these  simple  but  impressive 
words  maybe  taken  as  a  foreshadowing  of  what  his  feelings 
might  be  when  called  upon  to  lay  it  aside  for  the  last  time,  we 
may  well  believe  that  at  that  sad  moment  his  thoughts  were 
full  of  prayer  for  the  earthly  peace  of  all. 

The  duty  of  describing  in  detail  the  funeral  of  Mr.  Thack 
eray  must  be  left  to  his  biographer  —  a  character  which  will, 
doubtless,  ere  long  be  assumed  by  one  who  can  speak  of 
"  greatness  greatly ;  "  but  as  I  was  present  on  that  mournful 
occasion  I  am  constrained  to  allude  to  it,  as  affording  the  last 
link  in  the  chain  of  my  reminiscences  of  this  conspicuous  ex 
ample  of  representative  men. 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  the  3oth  December  that  Thacke 
ray  was  carried  to  his  resting-place  in  Kensal  Green  Cemetery. 
The  atmosphere  was  warm,  crisp,  and  clear ;  the  ground  was 
unusually  elastic,  and  there  was  a  genial  glow  over  the  face  of 
nature  which  almost  forbade  the  idea  that  the  hundreds  who 
were  hastening  to  the  burial-place  were  absorbed  by  other  than 
cheering  thoughts. 

"  The  sun  shone  bright  o'erhead ; 

Nothing  in  Nature's  aspect  intimated 

That  a  great  man  was  dead." 

The  number  of  persons  present  was  estimated  at  about  2,000, 
and  among  them  were  many  of  the  chosen  lights  of  literature 
and  art.  Mr.  Charles  Dickens,  Mr.  Robert  Browning,  Mr. 


T32  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

Anthony  Trollope,  Mr.  Mark  Lemon,  Mr.  G.  H.  Lewes,  the  his 
torian  and  critic  ;  Mr.  Theodore  Martin,  poet  and  satirist ;  Dr. 
Russell,  of  the  "  Times  ;  "  Mr.  Frederick  Lawrence,  the  au 
thor  of  "  The  Life  of  Fielding  :  "  Mr.  Higgins  (Jacob  Omnium), 
Mr.  Robert  Bell,  Mr.  Millais,  R.  A.,  Mr.  George  Cruikshank, 
Mr.  John  Leech,  Mr.  Shirley  Brooks,  Mr.  Horace  Mayhew, 
Mr.  Charles  Mathews,  Mr.  Tom  Taylor,  Mr.  Creswick,  R.  A., 
M.  Louis  Blanc,  Mr.  John  Tenniel,  Mr.  Edmund  Yates  —  these 
are  a  few  taken  almost  at  random  from  the  numerous  gather 
ing  of  friends  assembled  at  the  cemetery ;  but  the  most  note 
worthy  circumstance  struck  me  as  being  the  deep  sympathy 
shown  in  the  event  by  a  very  large  majority  who  could  have 
known  nothing  of  Thackeray  except  from  his  works. 

It  was,  in  truth,  a  ceremony  so  full  of  universal  interest  that 
it  will  be  remembered  as  a  tribute  of  respect  to  one  of  the 
few  whose  genius  could  alone  command  it ;  and,  if  I  might  be 
allowed  for  one  moment  to  associate  the  living  Thackeray 
with  the  scene,  I  should  remark  how  forcibly  it  brought  to  the 
recollection  of  many,  who  saw  the  hearse  enter  the  grounds, 
the  funeral  of  Douglas  Jerrold,  when  the  noble  gray  head 
now  laid  low  was  observed  towering  among  the  pall-bearers. 
Indeed  the  mournful  proceeding  brought  these  two  great 
names  closely  together  in  my  mind  ;  and  I  am  free  to  confess 
that,  remembering  what  I  had  seen  of  the  inherent  kindness 
of  each,  and  recognizing  so  many  faces  at  Kensal  Green, 
which,  six  years  before,  I  had  marked  at  the  ceremony  at  Nor 
wood,  I  could  not  but  regard  the  coincidence  as  fraught  with 
both  pleasure  and  pain.  So  striking,  I  thought,  was  the  simi 
larity  between  the  circumstances  attending  the  two  burials,  that 
it  was  difficult  to  dispel  the  illusion  that,  although  the  two  men 
were  not  bound  together  in  life  by  the  strongest  ties  of  friend 
ship,  the  same  spirit  of  literary  brotherhood  which  had  guided 
their  fortunes  on  earth  seemed  to  hover  at  last  over  their 
graves. 

THE  SNOB. 

The  earliest  of  Thackeray's  literary  efforts  are  associated 
with  Cambridge.  It  was  in  the  year  1829  that  he  commenced, 


THE  SNOB. 


'33 


in  conjunction  with  a  friend  and  fellow  student,  to  edit  a  series 
of  humorous  papers,  published  in  that  city,  which  bore  the  title 
of  "  The  Snob  :  a  Literary  and  Scientific  Journal."  The  first 
number  appeared  on  the  9th  of  April  in  that  year,  and  the 
publication  was  continued  weekly.  Though  affecting  to  be  a 
periodical,  it  was  not  originally  intended  to  publish  more  than 
one  number  ;  but  the  project  was  carried  on  for  eleven  weeks, 
in  which  period  Mr.  Lettsom  had  resigned  the  entire  manage 
ment  to  his  friend.  The  contents  of  each  number — which 
consisted  only  of  four  pages  of  about  the  size  of  those  of  the 
present  volume  —  were  scanty  and  slight,  and  consisted  en 
tirely  of  squibs  and  humorous  sketches  in  verse  and  prose, 
many  of  which,  however,  show  some  germs  of  that  spirit  of 
wild  fun  which  afterwards  distinguished  the  "  Yellowplush  " 
papers  in  "  Fraser."  When  completed,  the  papers  bore  the 
following  title  :  — 

~  THE   SNOB: 

A   LITERARY   AND    SCIENTIFIC  JOURNAL. 
NOT 


'CONDUCTED   BY  MEMBERS    OF  THE   UNIVERSITY." 


Tityre,  tu  patulce  recubans  sub  tegmine  fagi 
Sylvestrem.  VIRGIL. 


PUBLISHED   BY  W.   H.    SMITH, 
ROSE  CRESCENT. 


1829. 

A  few  specimens  of  the  contents  of  this  curious  publication 
cannot  but  be  interesting  to  the  reader.     The  first  specimen 


1 3  4  WILLIAM  MAKE  PEA  CE    THA  CKERA  Y. 

we  shall  select  is  a  clever  skit   upon   the    Cambridge   Prize 
Poem,  as  follows  :  — 

TIMBUCTOO. 

TO   THE   EDITOR   OF   THE    "  SNOB." 

SIR,  —  Though  your  name  be  "  Snob,"  I  trust  you  will  not 
refuse  this  tiny  "  Poem  of  a  Gownsman,"  which  was  unluckily 
not  finished  on  the  day  appointed  for  delivery  of  the  several 
copies  of  verses  on  Timbuctoo.  I  thought,  Sir,  it  would  be  a 
pity  that  such  a  poem  should  be  lost  to  the  world  ;  and  con 
ceiving  "  The  Snob  "  to  be  the  most  widely-circulated  periodi 
cal  in  Europe,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  submitting  it  for 
insertion  or  approbation. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours,  &c.  &c.  &c. 

TIMBUCTOO.  —  PART  I. 

The  situation. 

In  Africa  (a  quarter  of  the  world), 
Men's  skins  are  black,  their  hair  is  crisp  and  curl'd, 
And  somewhere  there,  unknown  to  public  view, 
A  mighty  city  lies,  called  Timbuctoo. 
The  natural  history. 

There  stalks  the  tiger,  —  there  the  lion  roars,  5 

Who  sometimes  eats  the  luckless  blackamoors  ; 
All  that  he  leaves  of  them  the  monster  throws 
To  jackals,  vultures,  dogs,  cats,  kites,  and  crows  ; 
His  hunger  thus  the  forest  monarch  gluts, 
And  then  lies  down  'neath  trees  called  cocoa-nuts.     10 

Lines  i  and  2.  —  See  Guthrie's  Geography. 

The  site  of  Timbuctoo  is  doubtful ;  the  Author  has  neatly  expressed  this  in  the 
poem,  at  the  same  time  giving  us  some  slight  hints  relative  to  its  situation. 
Line  5.  —  So  Horace :  "  leonum  arida  nutrix^ 
Line  8.  —  Thus  Apollo  : 

eAcopia  rev^e  Kwecrcriv 
OUOVOICTL  re  Tracn. 

Lines  5-10.  —  How  skillfully  introduced  are  the  animal  and  vegetable  productions 
of  Africa !  It  is  worthy  to  remark  the  various  garments  in  which  the  Poet  hath 
clothed  the  lion.  He  is  called,  ist,  the  "  Lion"  ;  2d,  the  "Monster"  (for  he  is 
very  large) ;  and  3d,  the  "  Forest  Monarch, '?  which  undoubtedly  he  is 


THE  SNOB.  135 

The  lion  hunt. 

Quick  issue  out,  with  musket,  torch,  and  brand, 
The  sturdy  blackamoors,  a  dusky  band  ! 
The  beast  is  found  — pop  goes  the  musketoons  — 
The  lion  falls  covered  with  horrid  wounds. 

Their  lives  at  home. 

At  home  their  lives  in  pleasure  always  flow,  15 

But  many  have  a  different  lot  to  know  ! 

Abroad. 
They  're  often  caught,  and  sold  as  slaves,  alas  ! 

Reflections  on  the  foregoing. 
Thus  men  from  highest  joys  to  sorrow  pass. 
Yet  though  thy  monarchs  and  thy  nobles  boil 
Rack  and  molasses  in  Jamaica's  isle  ;  20 

Desolate  Afric  !  thou  art  lovely  yet  ! 

Lines  11-14.  —  The  author  confesses  himself  under  peculiar  obligations  to  Den- 
ham's  and  Clapperton's  Travels,  as  they  suggested  to  him  the  spirited  description 
contained  in  these  lines. 

Line  13.  —  "  Pop  goes  the  musketoons."  A  learned  friend  suggested  "  Bang  "  as 
a  stronger  expression,  but  as  African  gunpowder  is  notoriously  bad,  the  Author 
thought ' '  Pop  "  the  better  word. 

Lines  15-18.  — A  concise  but  affecting  description  is  here  given  of  the  domestic 
habits  of  the  people.  The  infamous  manner  in  which  they  are  entrapped  and  sold  as 
slaves  is  described,  and  the  whole  ends  with  an  appropriate  moral  sentiment.  The 
Poem  might  here  finish,  but  the  spirit  of  the  bard  penetrates  the  veil  of  futurity,  and 
from  it  cuts  off  a  bright  piece  for  the  hitherto  unfortunate  Africans,  as  the  following 
beautiful  lines  amply  exemplify. 

It  may  perhaps  be  remarked  that  the  Author  has  here  "  changed  his  hand."  He 
answers  that  it  was  his  intention  to  do  so.  Before  it  was  his  endeavor  to  be  elegant 
and  concise,  it  is  now  his  wish  to  be  enthusiastic  and  magnificent.  He  trusts  the 
Reader  will  perceive  the  aptness  with  which  he  has  changed  his  style  ;  when  he  nar 
rated  facts  he  was  calm,  when  he  enters  on  prophecy  he  is  fervid. 

The  enthusiasm  which  he  feels  is  beautifully  expressed  in  lines  25  and  26.  He 
thinks  he  has  very  successfully  imitated  in  the  last  six  lines  the  best  manner  of  Mr. 
Pope  ;  and  in  lines  12-26,  the  pathetic  elegance  of  the  author  of  "  Australasia  and 
Athens." 

The  Author  cannot  conclude  without  declaring  that  his  aim  in  writing  this  Poem 
will  be  fully  accomplished,  if  he  can  infuse  into  the  breasts  of  Englishmen  a  sense  of 
the  danger  in  which  they  lie.  Yes  —  Africa !  If  he  can  awaken  one  particle  of 
sympathy  for  thy  sorrows,  of  love  for  thy  land,  of  admiration  for  thy  virtue,  he  shall 
sink  into  the  grave  with  the  proud  consciousness  that  he  has  raised  esteem,  where 
before  there  was  contempt,  and  has  kindled  the  flame  of  hope  on  the  mouldering 
ashes  of  despair ! 


136  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

One  heart  yet  beats  which  ne'er  thee  shall  forget. 

What  though  thy  maidens  are  a  blackish  brown, 

Does  virtue  dwell  in  whiter  breasts  alone  ? 

Oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no  !  25 

It  shall  not,  must  not,  cannot,  e'er  be  so. 

The  day  shall  come  when  Albion's  self  shall  feel 

Stern  Afric's  wrath,  and  writhe  'neath  Afric's  steel. 

I  see  her  tribes  the  hill  of  glory  mount, 

And  sell  their  sugars  on  their  own  account ;  30 

While  round  her  throne  the  prostrate  nations  come, 

Sue  for  her  rice,  and  barter  for  her  rum  !  32 

This  concludes  with  a  little  vignette  in  the  "  Titmarsh  " 
manner,  representing  an  Indian  smoking  a  pipe  of  the  type 
once  commonly  seen  in  the  shape  of  a  small  carved  image  at 
the  doors  of  tobacconists'  shops.  In  another  paper  we  find 
the  following  pretended 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

This  day  is  published,  price  3^.  6</.,  "An  Essay  on  the 
Great  Toe,"  together  with  the  nature  and  properties  of  Toes 
in  general,  with  many  sagacious  inquiries  why  the  Great  Toes 
are  bigger  than  the  Little,  and  why  the  Little  are  less  than  the 
Great.  Proving  also  that  Gout  is  not  the  Dropsy,  and  that  a 
Gentleman  may  have  a  swelled  Face  without  a  pain  in  his 
Back.  Also  a  Postscript  to  establish  that  a  Chilblain  is  very 
unlike  a  Lock-jaw.  Translated  from  the  original  Chaldee. 

N.  B.  A  few  light  summer  lectures  on  Phrenology  to  be  dis 
posed  of  ;  inquire  of  Mr.  Smith. 

A  little  further  we  come  upon  an  exercise  in  Malapropisms,1 
under  the  form  of  a  letter  from  Mrs. 

RAMSBOTTOM    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

Radish  Ground  Buildings.  —  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  was  surprised 
to  see  my  name  in  Mr.  Bull's  paper,  for  I  give  you  my  word  I 
have  not  written  a  syllabub  to  him  since  I  came  to  reside  here, 

1  Signed  "  Dorothea  Julia  Ramsbottom,"  after  Theodore  Hook's  Paris  Corre 
spondent. 


THE  SNOB.  137 

that  I   might  enjoy  the   satiety  of   the  literary  and   learned 
world. 

I  have  the  honor  of  knowing  many  extinguished  persons.  I 
am  on  terms  of  the  greatest  contumacy  with  the  Court  of 
Alderman,  who  first  recommended  your  weekly  dromedary  to 
my  notice,  knowing  that  I  myself  was  a  great  literati.  When 
I  am  at  home,  I  make  Lavy  read  it  to  me,  as  I  consider  you 
the  censure  of  the  anniversary,  and  a  great  upholder  of  moral 
destruction. 

When  I  came  here,  I  began  reading  Mechanics  (written  by 
that  gentleman  whose  name  you  whistle).  I  thought  it  would 
be  something  like  the  "  Mechanics'  Magazine,"  which  my  poor 
dear  Ram  used  to  make  me  read  to  him,  but  I  found  them  very 
foolish.  What  do  I  want  to  know  about  weights  and  measures 
and  bull's  eyes,  when  I  have  left  off  trading.  I  have,  there 
fore,  begun  a  course  of  ugly  physics,  which  are  very  odd,  and 
written  by  the  Marquis  of  Spinningtoes. 

I  think  the  Library  of  Trinity  College  is  one  of  the  most 
admiral  objects  here.  I  saw  the  busks  of  several  gentlemen 
whose  statutes  I  had  seen  at  Room,  and  who  all  received  their 
edification  at  that  College.  There  was  Aristocracy  who  wrote 
farces  for  the  Olympic  Theatre,  and  Democracy  who  was  a 
laughing  philosophy. 

I  forgot  to  mention  that  my  son  George  Frederick  is  entered 
at  St.  John's,  because  I  heard  that  they  take  most  care  of  their 
morals  at  that  College.  I  called  on  the  tutor,  who  received 
myself  and  son  very  politely,  and  said  he  had  no  doubt  my  son 
would  be  a  tripod,  and  he  hoped  perspired  higher  than  polly, 
which  I  did  not  like.  I  am  going  to  give  a  tea  at  my  house, 
when  I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  yourself  and  children. 
Believe  me,  dear  Sir, 

Your  most  obedient  and  affectionate, 

DOROTHEA  JULIA  RAMSBOTTOM. 

Further  still,  we  have  an  example  of  droll  errors  in  orthog 
raphy  similar  to  those  in  which  Thackeray  afterwards  learned 
to  revel  in  the  characters  of  "  Yellowplush,"  and  "  Jeames  of 
Buckley  Square."  This  is  entitled  :  — 


[38  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

A  STATEMENT    ON    FAX    RELATIVE    TO    THE 
LATE    MURDER. 

By  D.  J.  RAMSBOTTOM. 


' '  Come  I  to  speak  in  Cassar's  funeral.' ' 

Milton.     Julius  Ccesar,  ACT  HI. 


On  Wednesday,  the  3rd  of  June  as  I  was  sitting  in  my  back 
parlor  taking  tea,  young  Frederick  Tudge  entered  the  room  ; 
I  reserved  from  his  disevelled  hair  and  vegetated  appearance, 
that  something  was  praying  on  his  vittles.  When  I  heard 
from  him  the  cause  of  his  vegetation,  I  was  putrified  !  I  stood 
transfigured  !  His  father,  the  editor  of  "  The  Snob,"  had 
been  macerated  in  the  most  sanguine  manner.  The  drops  of 
compassion  refused  my  eyes,  for  I  thought  of  him  whom  I  had 
lately  seen  high  in  health  and  happiness  ;  that  ingenuous  in- 
divisable,  who  often  and  often  when  seated  alone  with  me  has 
"  made  the  Table  roar,"  as  the  poet  has  it,  and  whose  constant 
aim  in  his  weakly  dromedary,  was  to  delight  as  well  as  to  re 
prove.  His  son  Frederick,  too  young  to  be  acquainted  with 
the  art  of  literal  imposition,  has  commissioned  me  to  excom 
municate  the  circumstances  of  his  death,  and  call  down  the 
anger  of  the  Proctors  and  Court  of  Aldermen  on  the  phlogi- 
tious  perforators  of  the  deed. 

It  appears  he  was  taking  his  customary  rendezvous  by  the 
side  of  Trumpington  Ditch,  he  was  stopped  by  some  men  in 
uncler-gravy  dresses,  who  put  a  pitch-plaister  on  him,  which 
completely  developed  his  nose  and  eyes,  or,  as  Shakspeare 
says,  "  his  visible  ray."  He  was  then  dragged  into  a  field, 
and  the  horrid  deed  was  replete  !  Such  are  the  circumstances 
of  his  death  ;  but  Mr.  Tudge  died  like  Wriggle-us,  game  to 
the  last ;  or  like  Caesar  in  that  beautiful  faction  of  the  poet, 
with  which  I  have  headed  my  remarks,  I  mean  him  who 
wanted  to  be  Poop  of  Room,  but  was  killed  by  two  Brutes, 
and  the  fascinating  hands  of  a  perspiring  Senate. 


THA CKERA  Y  IN  PAA1S.  \  39 

With  the  most  sanguinary  hopes  that  the  Anniversary  and 
Town  will  persecute  an  inquiry  into  this  dreadful  action,  I  will 
conclude  my  repeal  to  the  pathetic  reader  ;  and  if  by  such  a 
misrepresentation  of  fax,  I  have  been  enabled  to  awaken  an 
apathy  for  the  children  of  the  late  Mr.  Tudge,  who  are  left  in 
the  most  desultory  state,  I  shall  feel  the  satisfaction  of  having 
exorcised  my  pen  in  the  cause  of  Malevolence,  and  soothed 
the  inflictions  of  indignant  Misery. 

D.  J.  RAMSBOTTOM. 

P.  S.  The  Publisher  requests  me  to  state  that  the  present 
Number  is  published  from  the  MS.  found  in  Mr.  Tudge's 
pocket,  and  one  more  number  will  be  soon  forthcoming,  con 
taining  his  inhuman  papers. 

THACKERAY  IN  PARIS. 

A  recent  writer  has  given  some  amusing  particulars  of  his 
Paris  life,  and  his  subsequent  interest  in  the  city,  where  he 
had  many  friends  and  was  known  to  a  wide  circle  of  readers. 
"  He  lived,"  says  this  writer,  "  in  Paris  '  over  the  water,'  and 
it  is  not  long  since,  in  strolling  about  the  Latin  Quarter  with 
the  best  of  companions,  that  we  visited  his  lodgings,  Thack 
eray  inquiring  after  those  who  were  already  forgotten  —  un 
known.  Those  who  may  wish  to  learn  his  early  Parisian  life 
and  associations  should  turn  to  the  story  of  '  Philip  on  his 
Way  through  the  World.'  Many  incidents  in  that  narrative 
are  reminiscences  of  his  own  youthful  literary  struggles  whilst 
living  modestly  in  this  city.  Latterly,  fortune  and  fame 
enabled  the  author  of  '  Vanity  Fair '  to  visit  imperial  Paris  in 
imperial  style,  and  Mr.  Thackeray  put  up  generally  at  the 
Hotel  de  Bristol,  in  the  Place  Vendome.  Never  was  increase 
of  fortune  more  gracefully  worn  or  more  generously  employed. 
The  struggling  artist  and  small  man  of  letters  whom  he  was 
sure  to  find  at  home  or  abroad,  was  pretty  safe  to  be  assisted 
if  he  learned  their  wants.  I  know  of  many  a  kind  act.  One 
morning,  on  entering  Mr.  Thackeray's  bedroom  in  Paris,  I 
found  him  placing  some  napoleons  in  a  pill-box,  on  the  lid  of 


140  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

which  was  written,  '  One  to  be  taken  occasionally.'  '  What 
are  you  doing?'  said  I.  'Well,'  he  replied,  'there  is  an  old 
person  here  who  says  she  is  very  ill  and  in  distress,  and  I 
strongly  suspect  that  this  is  the  sort  of  medicine  she  wants. 
Dr.  Thackeray  intends  to  leave  it  with  her  himself.  Let  us 
walk  out  together.'  Thackeray  used  to  say  that  he  came  to 
Paris  for  a  holiday,  and  to  revive  his  recollections  of  French 
cooking.  But  he  generally  worked  here,  especially  when 
editing  the  '  Cornhill  Magazine.'  " 

Thackeray's  affection  for  Paris,  however,  appears  to  have 
been  founded  upon  no  relish  for  the  gayeties  of  the  French 
metropolis,  and  certainly  not  upon  any  liking  for  French  in 
stitutions.  His  papers  on  this  subject  are  generally  criticisms 
upon  political,  social,  and  literary  failings  of  the  French,  writ 
ten  in  a  severe  spirit  which  savors  more  of  the  confident 
judgment  of  youth  than  of  the  calm  spirit  of  the  citizen  of  the 
world.  The  reactionary  rule  of  Louis  Philippe,  the  Govern 
ment  of  July,  and  the  boasted  Charter  of  1830,  were  the 
objects  of  his  especial  dislike  ;  nor  was  he  less  unsparing  in 
his  views  of  French  morals  as  exemplified  in  their  law  courts, 
and  in  the  novels  of  such  writers  as  Madame  Dudevant.  The 
truth  is,  that  at  this  period  Paris  was,  in  the  eyes  of  the  art- 
student,  simply  the  Paradise  of  young  painters.  Possessed  of 
a  good  fortune  —  said  to  have  amounted  on  his  coming  of  age 
in  1832  to  ^20,000  —  the  young  Englishman  passed  his  days 
in  the  Louvre,  his  evenings  with  his  French  artist  acquaint 
ances,  of  whom  his  preface  to  Louis  Marvy's  sketches  gives  so 
pleasant  a  glimpse  ;  or  sometimes  in  his  quiet  lodgings  in  the 
Quartier  Latin,  in  dashing  off  for  some  English  or  foreign 
paper  his  enthusiastic  notices  of  the  Paris  Exhibition,  or  a 
criticism  on  French  writers,  or  a  story  of  French  artist  life,  or 
an  account  of  some  great  cause  celebre  then  stirring  the 
Parisian  world.  This  was  doubtless  the  happiest  period  of 
his  life.  In  one  of  these  papers  he  describes  minutely  the 
life  of  the  art-student  in  Paris,  and  records  his  impressions  of 
it  at  the  time. 

"  To  account  (he  says)  for  the  superiority  over  England  — 


THA  CKERA  Y  IN  PARIS.  1 4 1 

which,  I  think,  as  regards  art,  is  incontestable  —  it  must  be 
remembered  that  the  painter's  trade,  in  France,  is  a  very  good 
one  ;  better  appreciated,  better  understood,  and,  generally,  far 
better  paid  than  with  us.  There  are  a  dozen  excellent  schools 
in  which  a  lad  may  enter  here,  and,  under  the  eye  of  a  prac 
ticed  master,  learn  the  apprenticeship  of  his  art  at  an  expense 
of  about  ten  pounds  a  year.  In  England  there  is  no  school 
except  the  '  Academy,'  unless  the  student  can  afford  to  pay  a 
very  large  sum,  and  place  himself  under  the  tuition  of  some 
particular  artist.  Here,  a  young  man  for  his  ten  pounds  has 
all  sorts  of  accessory  instruction,  models,  etc.  ;  and  has 
further,  and  for  nothing,  numberless  incitements  to  study  his 
profession  which  are  not  to  be  found  in  England  ;  the  streets 
are  filled  with  picture  shops,  the  people  themselves  are  pict 
ures  walking  about ;  the  churches,  theatres,  eating-houses, 
concert-rooms,  are  covered  with  pictures  ;  Nature  itself  is 
inclined  more  kindly  to  him,  for  the  sky  is  a  thousand  times 
more  bright  and  beautiful,  and  the  sun  shines  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  year.  Add  to  this  incitements  more  selfish,  but 
quite  as  powerful :  a  French  artist  is  paid  very  handsomely  ; 
for  five  hundred  a  year  is  much  where  all  are  poor  ;  and  has  a 
rank  in  society  rather  above  his  merits  than  below  them,  being 
caressed  by  hosts  and  hostesses  in  places  where  titles  are 
laughed  at,  and  a  baron  is  thought  of  no  more  account  than  a 
banker's  clerk. 

"  The  life  of  the  young  artist  here  is  the  easiest,  merriest, 
dirtiest  existence  possible.  He  comes  to  Paris,  probably  at 
sixteen,  from  his  province  ;  his  parents  settle  forty  pounds  a 
year  on  him,  and  pay  his  master  ;  he  establishes  himself  in 
the  Pays  Latin,  or  in  the  new  quarter  of  Notre  Dame  de  Lor- 
ette  (which  is  quite  peopled  with  painters) :  he  arrives  at  his 
atelier  at  a  tolerably  early  hour,  and  labors  among  a  score  of 
companions  as  merry  and  poor  as  himself.  Each  gentleman 
has  his  favorite  tobacco-pipe,  and  the  pictures  are  painted  in 
the  midst  of  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  a  din  of  puns  and  choice 
French  slang,  and  a  roar  of  choruses,  of  which  no  one  can 
form  an  idea  who  has  not  been  present  at  such  an  assembly." 


142  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

In  another  paper  he  discourses  enthusiastically  of  the  French 
school  of  painting  as  exemplified  in  a  picture  in  the  Exhibi 
tion  by  Carel  Dujardin,  as  follows  :  — 

"  A  horseman  is  riding  up  a  hill,  and  giving  money  to  a 
blowsy  beggar-wench.  '  O  matutini  rores  auraeque  salubres  !  ' 
in  what  a  wonderful  way  has  the  artist  managed  to  create  you 
out  of  a  few  bladders  of  paint  and  pots  of  varnish.  You  can 
see  the  matutinal  dews  twinkling  in  the  grass,  and  feel  the 
fresh,  salubrious  airs  ('the  breath  of  Nature  blowing  free,'  as 
the  Corn-law  man  sings)  blowing  free  over  the  heath.  Silvery 
vapors  are  rising  up  from  the  blue  lowlands.  You  can  tell 
the  hour  of  the  morning  and  the  time  of  the  year  ;  you  can  do 
anything  but  describe  it  in  words.  As  with  regard  to  the 
Poussin  above  mentioned,  one  can  never  pass  it  without  bear 
ing  away  a  certain  pleasing,  dreaming  feeling  of  awe  and 
musing ;  the  other  landscape  inspires  the  spectator  infallibly 
with  the  most  delightful  briskness  and  cheerfulness  of  spirit. 
Herein  lies  the  vast  privilege  of  the  landscape-painter  ;  he 
does  not  address  you  with  one  fixed  particular  subject  or  ex 
pression,  but  with  a  thousand  never  contemplated  by  himself, 
and  which  only  arise  out  of  occasion.  You  may  always  be 
looking  at  a  natural  landscape  as  at  a  fine  pictorial  imitation 
of  one  ;  it  seems  eternally  producing  new  thoughts  in  your 
bosom,  as  it  does  fresh  beauties  from  its  own." 

Mr.  Thackeray  was  in  Paris  in  March,  1836,  at  the  time  of 
th  execution  of  Fieschi  and  Lacdnaire,  upon  which  subject 
he  wrote  some  remarks  in  one  of  his  anonymous  papers  which 
it  is  interesting  to  compare  with  the  more  advanced  views  in 
favor  of  the  abolition  of  the  punishment  of  death  which  are 
familiar  to  the  readers  of  his  subsequent  article,  "  On  Going 
to  see  a  Man  Hanged."  He  did  not  witness  the  execution 
either  of  Fieschi  or  Lacenaire,  though  he  made  unsuccessful 
attempts  to  be  present  at  both  events. 

The  day  for  Fieschi's  death  was  purposely  kept  secret ;  and 
he  was  executed  at  a  remote  quarter  of  the  town.  But  the 
scene  on  the  morning  when  his  execution  did  not  take  place 
was  never  forgotten  by  the  young  English  artist. 


THACKERAY  IN  PARIS.  143 

It  was  carnival  time,  and  the  rumor  had  pretty  generally 
been  carried  abroad,  that  the  culprit  was  to  die  on  that  day. 
A  friend  who  accompanied  Thackeray  came  many  miles 
through  the  mud  and  dark,  in  order  to  be  "  in  at  the  death." 
They  set  out  before  light,  floundering  through  the  muddy 
Champs  Elysees,  where  were  many  others  upon  the  same  er 
rand.  They  passed  by  the  Concert  of  Musard,  then  held  in 
the  Rue  St.  Honore  ;  and  round  this,  in  the  wet,  a  number  of 
coaches  were  collected  :  the  ball  was  just  up  ;  and  a  crowd  of 
people,  in  hideous  masquerade,  drunk,  tired,  dirty,  dressed  in 
horrible  old  frippery  and  daubed^with  filthy  rouge,  were  troop 
ing  out  of  the  place  ;  tipsy  women  and  men,  shrieking,  jab 
bering,  gesticulating,  as  French  will  do  ;  parties  swaggering, 
staggering  forward,  arm  in  arm,  reeling  to  and  fro  across  the 
street,  and  yelling  songs  in  chorus.  Hundreds  of  these  were 
bound  for  the  show,  and  the  two  friends  thought  themselves 
lucky  in  finding  a  vehicle  to  the  execution  place,  at  the  Barri- 
ere  d'Enfer.  As  they  crossed  the  river,  and  entered  the  Rue 
d'Enfer,  crowds  of  students,  black  workmen,  and  more  drunken 
devils,  from  more  carnival  balls,  were  filling  it  ;  and  on  the 
grand  place  there  were  thousands  of  these  assembled,  looking 
out  for  Fieschi  and  his  cortege.  They  waited,  but  no  throat- 
cutting  that  morning  ;  no  august  spectacle  of  satisfied  justice  ; 
and  the  eager  spectators  were  obliged  to  return,  disappointed 
of  the  expected  breakfast  of  blood.  "  It  would  "  (says  Mr. 
Thackeray)  "  have  been  a  fine  scene,  that  execution,  could  it 
but  have  taken  place  in  the  midst  of  the  mad  mountebanks 
and  tipsy  strumpets  who  had  flocked  so  far  to  witness  it,  wish 
ing  to  wind  up  the  delights  of  their  carnival  by  a  bonne-bouche 
of  a  murder." 

The  other  attempt  was  equally  unfortunate.  The  same 
friend  accompanied  him,  but  they  arrived  too  late  on  the 
ground  to  be  present  at  the  execution  of  Lacenaire  and  his  co- 
mate  in  murder,  Avril.  But  as  they  came  to  the  spot  (a  gloomy 
round  space,  within  the  barrier  —  three  roads  led  to  it  —  and, 
outside,  they  saw  the  wine-shops  and  restaurateurs  of  the  bar 
rier  looking  gay  and  inviting),  they  only  found  in  the  midst  of 


144  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

it,  a  little  pool  of  ice,  just  partially  tinged  with  red.  Two  or 
three  idle  street  boys  were  dancing  and  stamping  about  this 
pool ;  and  when  the  Englishmen  asked  one  of  them  whether 
the  execution  had  taken  place,  he  began  dancing  more  madly 
than  ever,  and  shrieked  out  with  a  loud  fantastical  theatrical 
voice,  "  Venez  tous  Messieurs  et  Dames,  voyez  ici  le  sang  du 
monstre  Lace'naire,  et  de  son  campagnon,  le  traitre  Avril  ; Jr 
and  straightway  all  the  other  gamins  screamed  out  the  words 
in  chorus,  and  took  hands  and  danced  round  the  little  puddle. 
"  Oh,  august  justice  !  "  exclaimed  the  young  art-student,  "  your 
meal  was  followed  by  an  appropriate  grace  !  Was  any  man 
who  saw  the  show  deterred,  or  frightened,  or  moralized  in  any 
way  ?  He  had  gratified  his  appetite  for  blood,  and  this  was  all. 
Remark  what  a  good  breakfast  you  eat  after  an  execution  ; 
how  pleasant  it  is  to  cut  jokes  after  it,  and  upon  it.  This 
merry,  pleasant  mood,  is  brought  on  by  the  blood-tonic." 

THE  DIGNITY  OF  LITERATURE. 

It  was  during  the  publication  of  "  Pendennis  "  that  a  criti 
cism  in  the  ki  Morning  Chronicle  "  and  in  the  "  Examiner  " 
newspapers  drew  from  Thackeray  the  following  remarkable 
letter  on  the  "  Dignity  of  Literature,"  addressed  to  the  Editor 
of  the  former  journal  :  — 

"  REFORM  CLUB,  Jan.  StA,  1850. 

"  To  the  Editor  of  the  '  Morning  Chronicle? 

"  SIR,  —  In  a  leading  article  of  your  journal  of  Thursday 
the  3d  instant  you  commented  upon  literary  pensions  and  the 
status  of  literary  men  in  this  country,  and  illustrated  your 
argument  by  extracts  from  the  story  of  '  Pendennis,'  at  present 
in  course  of  publication.  You  have  received  my  writings  with 
so  much  kindness  that,  if  you  have  occasion  to  disapprove  of 
them  or  the  author,  I  can't  question  your  right  to  blame  me, 
or  doubt  for  a  moment  the  friendliness  and  honesty  of  my 
critic ;  and  however  I  might  dispute  the  justice  of  your  verdict 
in  my  case,  I  had  proposed  to  submit  to  it  in  silence,  being 
indeed  very  quiet  in  my  conscience  with  regard  to  the  charge 


THE  DIGNITY  OF  LITERATURE.  145 

made  against  me.  But  another  newspaper  of  high  character 
and  repute  takes  occasion  to  question  the  principles  advocated 
in  your  article  of  Thursday ;  arguing  in  favor  of  pensions  for 
literary  persons,  as  you  argued  against  them  ;  and  the  only 
point  upon  which  the  '  Examiner '  and  the  '  Chronicle  '  ap 
pear  to  agree  unluckily  regards  myself,  who  am  offered  up 
to  general  reprehension  in  two  leading  articles  by  the  two 
writers  :  by  the  latter,  for  i  fostering  a  baneful  prejudice  ' 
against  literary  men  ;  by  the  former,  for  '  stooping  to  flatter  ' 
this  prejudice  in  the  public  mind,  and  condescending  to  cari 
cature  (as  is  too  often  my  habit)  my  literary  fellow-laborers, 
in  order  to  pay  court  to  '  the  non-literary  class.'  The  charges 
of  the  '  Examiner '  against  a  man  who  has  never,  to  his 
knowledge,  been  ashamed  of  his  profession,  or  (except  for  its 
dullness)  of  any  single  line  from  his  pen  —  grave  as  they  are, 
are,  I  hope,  not  proven.  '  To  stoop  to  flatter '  any  class  is  a 
novel  accusation  brought  against  my  writings  ;  and  as  for  my 
scheme  '  to  pay  court  to  the  non-literary  class  by  disparaging 
my  literary  fellow-laborers,'  it  is  a  design  which  would  exhibit 
a  degree  not  only  of  baseness  but  of  folly  upon  my  part,  of 
which  I  trust  I  am  not  capable.  The  editor  of  the  '  Examiner 
may,  perhaps,  occasionally  write,  like  other  authors,  in  a  hurry, 
and  not  be  aware  of  the  conclusions  to  which  some  of  his 
sentences  may  lead.  If  I  stoop  to  flatter  anybody's  prejudice 
for  some  interested  motives  of  my  own,  I  am  no  more  nor  less 
than  a  rogue  and  a  cheat :  which  deductions  from  the  '  Exam 
iner's  '  premises  I  will  not  stoop  to  contradict,  because  the 
premises  themselves  are  simply  absurd.  I  deny  that  the  con 
siderable  body  of  our  countrymen  described  by  the  '  Exam 
iner  '  as  the  '  non-literary  class  '  has  the  least  gratification  in 
witnessing  the  degradation  or  disparagement  of  literary  men. 
Why  accuse  '  the  non-literary  class  '  of  being  so  ungrateful  ? 
If  the  writings  of  an  author  give  a  reader  pleasure  or  profit, 
surely  the  latter  will  have  a  favorable  opinion  of  the  person 
who  so  benefits  him.  What  intelligent  man,  of  what  political 
views,  would  not  receive  with  respect  and  welcome  that  writei 
of  the  '  Examiner'  of  whom  your  paper  once  said,  that  'he 


146  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

made  all  England  laugh  and  think  ? '  Who  would  deny  to 
that  brilliant  wit,  that  polished  satirist,  his  just  tribute  of 
respect  and  admiration  ?  Does  any  man  who  has  written  a 
book  worth  reading  —  any  poet,  historian,  novelist,  man  of 
science  —  lose  reputation  by  his  character  for  genius  or  for 
learning  ?  Does  he  not,  on  the  contrary,  get  friends,  sym 
pathy,  applause  —  money,  perhaps  ?  —  all  good  and  pleasant 
things  in  themselves,  and  not  ungenerously  awarded  as  they 
are  honestly  won.  That  generous  faith  in  men  of  letters,  that 
kindly  regard  in  which  the  whole  reading  nation  holds*,  them, 
appear  to  me  to  be  so  clearly  shown  in  our  country  every  day, 
that  to  question  them  would  be  as  absurd  as,  permit  me  to  say 
for  my  part,  it  would  be  ungrateful.  What  is  it  that  fills 
mechanics'  institutes  in  the  great  provincial  towns  when  lit 
erary  men  are  invited  to  attend  their  festivals  ?  Has  not 
every  literary  man  of  mark  his  friends  and  his  circle,  his 
hundreds  or  his  tens  of  thousands  of  readers  ?  And  has  not 
every  one  had  from  these  constant  and  affecting  testimonials 
of  the  esteem  in  which  they  hold  him  ?  It  is  of  course  one 
writer's  lot,  from  the  nature  of  his  subject  or  of  his  genius,  to 
command  the  sympathies  or  awaken  the  curiosity  of  many 
more  readers  than  shall  choose  to  listen  to  another  author  ; 
but  surely  all  get  their  hearing.  The  literary  profession  is  not 
held  in  disrepute  ;  nobody  wants  to  disparage  it  ;  no  man 
loses  his  social  rank,  whatever  it  may  be,  by  practicing  it.  On 
the  contrary,  the  pen  gives  a  place  in  the  world  to  men  who 
had  none  before — a  fair  place  fairly  achieved  by  their  genius  ; 
as  any  other  degree  of  eminence  is  by  any  other  kind  of  merit. 
Literary  men  need  not,  as  it  seems  to  me,  be  in  the  least 
querulous  about  their  position  any  more,  or  want  the  pity  of 
anybody.  The  money-prizes  which  the  chief  among  them  get 
are  not  so  high  as  those  which  fall  to  men  of  other  callings  — 
to  bishops,  or  to  judges,  or  to  opera-singers  and  actors  ;  nor 
have  they  received  stars  and  garters  as  yet,  or  peerages  and 
governorships  of  islands,  such  as  fall  to  the  lot  of  military 
officers.  The  rewards  of  the  profession  are  not  to  be  meas 
ured  by  the  money  standard  :  for  one  man  spends  a  life  of 


THE  DIGNITY  OF  LITERATURE.  147 

learning  and  labor  on  a  book  which  does  not  pay  the  printer's 
bill,  and  another  gets  a  little  fortune  by  a  few  light  volumes. 
But,  putting  the  money  out  of  the  question,  I  believe  that  the 
social  estimation  of  the  man  of  letters  is  as  good  as  it  deserves 
to  be,  and  as  good  as  that  of  any  other  professional  man. 
With  respect  to  the  question  in  debate  between  you  and  the 
'  Examiner '  as  to  the  propriety  of  public  rewards  and  honors 
for  literary  men,  I  don't  see  why  men  of  letters  should  not 
very  cheerfully  coincide  with  Mr.  '  Examiner  '  in  accepting  all 
the  honors,  places,  and  prizes  which  they  can  get.  The 
amount  of  such  as  will  be  awarded  to  them  will  not,  we  may 
be  pretty  sure,  impoverish  the  country  much  ;  and  if  it  is  the 
custom  of  the  State  to  reward  by  money,  or  titles  of  honor,  or 
stars  and  garters  of  any  sort,  individuals  who  do  the  country 
service,  and  if  individuals  are  gratified  at  having  '  Sir '  or  '  My 
lord '  appended  to  their  names,  or  stars  and  ribbons  hooked 
on  their  coats  and  waistcoats,  as  men  most*  undoubtedly  are, 
and  as  their  wives,  families,  and  relations  are,  there  can  be  no 
reason  why  men  of  letters  should  not  have  the  chance,  as  well 
as  men  of  the  robe  or  the  sword  ;  or  why,  if  honor  and  money 
are  good  for  one  profession,  they  should  not  be  good  for 
another.  No  man  in  other  callings  thinks  himself  degraded 
by  receiving  a  reward  from  his  Government ;  nor,  surely,  need 
the  literary  man  be  more  squeamish  about  pensions,  and 
ribbons,  and  titles,  than  the  ambassador,  or  general,  or  judge. 
Every  European  state  but  ours  rewards  its  men  of  letters ;  the 
American  Government  gives  them  their  full  share  of  its  small 
patronage,  and  if  Americans,  why  not  Englishmen  ?  If  Pitt 
Crawley  is  disappointed  at  not  getting  a  ribbon  on  retiring 
from  his  diplomatic  post  at  Pumpernickel,  if  General  O'Dowd 
is  pleased  to  be  called  Sir  Hector  O'Dowd,  K.  C.  B.,  and  his 
wife  at  being  denominated  my  Lady  O'Dowd,  are  literary  men 
to  be  the  only  persons  exempt  from  vanity,  and  is  it  to  be  a 
sin  in  them  to  covet  honor  ?  And  now,  with  regard  to  the 
charge  against  myself  of  fostering  baneful  prejudices  against 
our  calling  —  to  which  I  no  more  plead  guilty  than  I  should 
think  Fielding  would  have  done  if  he  had  been  accused  of  a 
design  to  bring  the  Church  into  contempt  by  describing 


148  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

Parson  Trulliber  —  permit  me  to  say,  that  before  you  deliver 
sentence  it  would  be  as  well  if  you  had  waited  to  hear  the 
whole  of  the  argument.  Who  knows  what  is  coming  in  the 
future  numbers  of  the  work  which  has  incurred  your  dis 
pleasure  and  the  '  Examiner's,'  and  whether  you,  in  accusing 
me  of  prejudice,  and  the  '  Examiner '  (alas  !)  of  swindling  and 
flattering  the  public,  have  not  been  premature  ?  Time  and  the 
hour  may  solve  this  mystery,  for  which  the  candid  reader  is 
referred  '  to  our  next.'  That  I  have  a  prejudice  against  run 
ning  into  debt,  and  drunkenness,  and  disorderly  life,  and 
against  quackery  and  falsehood  in  my  profession  I  own,  and 
that  I  like  to  have  a  laugh  at  those  pretenders  in  it  who  write 
confidential  news  about  fashion  and  politics  for  provincial 
gobemouches ;  but  I  am  not  aware  of  feeling  any  malice  in 
describing  this  weakness,  or  of  doing  anything  wrong  in  ex 
posing  the  former  vices.  Have  they  never  existed  amongst 
literary  men  ?  Have  their  talents  never  been  urged  as  a  plea 
for  improvidence,  and  their  very  faults  adduced  as  a  conse 
quence  of  their  genius  ?  The  only  moral  that  I,  as  a  writer, 
wished  to  hint  in  the  descriptions  against  which  you  protest, 
was,  that  it  was  the  duty  of  a  literary  man,  as  well  as  any 
other,  to  practice  regularity  and  sobriety,  to  love  his  family, 
and  to  pay  his  tradesmen.  Nor  is  the  picture  I  have  drawn 
1  a  caricature  which  I  condescend  to,'  any  more  than  it  is  a 
willful  and  insidious  design  on  my  part  to  flatter  '  the  non- 
literary  class.'  If  it  be  a  caricature,  it  is  the  result  of  a  nat 
ural  perversity  of  vision,  not  of  an  artful  desire  to  mislead  : 
but  my  attempt  was  to  tell  the  truth,  and  I  meant  to  tell  it  not 
unkindly.  I  have  seen  the  bookseller  whom  Bludyer  robbed 
of  his  books  :  I  have  carried  money,  and  from  a  noble  brother 
man-of-letters,  to  some  one  not  unlike  Shandon  in  prison,  and 
have  watched  the  beautiful  devotion  of  his  wife  in  that  dreary 
place.  Why  are  these  things  not  to  be  described,  if  they 
illustrate,  as  they  appear  to  me  to  do,  that  strange  and  awfui 
struggle  of  good  and  wrong  which  takes  place  in  our  hearts 
and  in  the  world  ?  It  may  be  that  I  worked  out  my  moral  ill, 
or  it  may  be  possible  that  the  critic  of  the  *  Examiner  '  fails  in 
apprehension.  My  efforts  as  an  artist  come  perfectly  within 


THE  DIGNITY  OF  LITERATURE.  149 

his  province  as  a  censor  ;  but  when  Mr.  '  Examiner '  says  of  a 
gentleman  that  he  is  *  stooping  to  flatter  a  public  prejudice,' 
which  public  prejudice  does  not  exist,  I  submit  that  he  makes 
a  charge  which  is  as  absurd  as  it  is  unjust,  and  am  thankful 
that  it  repels  itself.  And,  instead  of  accusing  the  public  of 
persecuting  and  disparaging  us  as  a  class,  it  seems  to  me  that 
men  of  letters  had  best  silently  assume  that  they  are  as  good 
as  any  other  gentlemen,  nor  raise  piteous  controversies  upon 
a  question  which  all  people  of  sense  must  take  to  be  settled. 
If  I  sit  at  your  table,  I  suppose  that  I  am  my  neighbor's  equal 
as  that  he  is  mine.  If  I  begin  straightway  with  a  protest  of 
1  Sir,  I  am  a  literary  man,  but  I  would  have  you  to  know  I  am 
as  good  as  you,'  which  of  us  is  it  that  questions  the  dignity  of 
the  literary  profession — my  neighbor  who  would  like  to  eat 
his  soup  in  quiet,  or  the  man  of  letters  who  commences  the 
argument?  And  I  hope  that  a  comic  writer,  because  he 
describes  one  author  as  improvident  and  another  as  a  parasite, 
may  not  only  be  guiltless  of  a  desire  to  vilify  his  profession, 
but  may  really  have  its  honor  at  heart.  If  there  are  no  spend 
thrifts  or  parasites  amongst  us,  the  satire  becomes  unjust  ; 
but  if  such  exist,  or  have  existed,  they  are  as  good  subjects 
for  comedy  as  men  of  other  callings.  I  never  heard  that  the 
Bar  felt  itself  aggrieved  because  '  Punch '  chose  to  describe 
Mr.  Dunup's  notorious  state  of  insolvency,  or  that  the  picture 
of  Stiggins  in  *  Pickwick '  was  intended  as  an  insult  to  all 
Dissenters,  or  that  all  the  attorneys  in  the  empire  were  indig 
nant  at  the  famous  history  of  the  firm  of  '  Quirk,  Gammon, 
and  Snap.'  Are  we  to  be  passed  over  because  we  are  fault 
less,  or  because  we  cannot  afford  to  be  laughed  at  ?  And  if 
every  character  in  a  story  is  to  represent  a  class,  not  an 
individual  —  if  every  bad  figure  is  to  have  its  obliged  contrast 
of  a  good  one,  and  a  balance  of  vice  and  virtue  is  to  be  struck 
• — novels,  I  think,  would  become  impossible,  as  they  would  be 
intolerably  stupid  and  unnatural,  and  there  would  be  a  lamen 
table  end  of  writers  and  readers  of  such  compositions. 
"  Believe  me,  Sir,  to  be  your  very  faithful  servant, 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY." 


1 5  O     WILLIAM  MA KEPEA  CE  THA  CKERA  Y. 

PERSONAL  APPEARANCE  OF  THACKERAY. 
Who  that  has  seen  will  ever  forget  the  commanding  figure 
and  the  stately  head  ?  Sauntering  —  usually  a  solitary  man  — 
through  the  hall  of  the  Reform  Club,  or  in  the  quietudes  of 
the  Athenaeum,  making  up  his  mind  to  find  a  corner  to  work 
for  an  hour  or  so  on  the  small  sheets  of  paper  in  his  pocket, 
in  a  hand  as  neat  as  Peter  Cunningham's,  or  Leigh  Hunt's  ; : 
gazing  dreamily,  and  often  with  a  sad  and  weary  look,  out  of 
window  ;  moving  slowly  westward  home  to  dinner  on  a  sum 
mer's  evening  ;  or  making  a  strange  presence,  as  obviously  not 
belonging  to  the  place,  in  Fleet  Street,  on  his  way  to  White- 
friars  or  Cornhill ;  who  that  knew  him  does  not  remember 
dear  Old  Thackeray,  as  his  familiars  lovingly  called  him,  in 
some  or  all  of  these  moods  and  places  ?  In  Thackeray  as  in 
Dickens,  there  was  a  strong  and  impressive  individuality.  No 
two  men  could  be  less  alike,  in  person  or  mind,  than  these  two 
writers  who  shared  the  world's  favor  together  ;  and  yet  there 
was  an  equality  and  identity  in  their  impressiveness.  Dickens's 
strength  was  quick,  alert,  and  with  the  glow  of  health  in  it  ; 
it  seemed  to  proceed  like  that  of  a  mighty  engine  from  an  in 
ward  fire.  Thackeray's  was  calm,  majestic  by  its  ease  and  ex 
tent,  as  the  force  of  a  splendid  stream.  Hawthorne's  figure 
and  air  has  been  described  as  "  modestly  grand :  "  and  the  ob 
servation,  it  occurs  to  me,  applies  exactly  to  Thackeray.  In 
deed  I  have  often  been  struck  with  the  idea  that  the  two  men 
must  have  affected  society  much  in  the  same  way,  and  by 
the  same  mental  and  physical  qualities.  Like  Hawthorne, 
Thackeray 

"  Wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud,'' 

—  a  cloud,  it  should  be  noted  and  remembered,  with  a  silver 
lining.  In  their  solitude,  when  suddenly  observed,  both  had 
a  sad,  a  grave  aspect :  and  each  was  "  marvelously  moved 

1  Shortly  before  his  death  he  spent  a  morning  in  the  reading-room  of  the  British 
Museum,  and  there  by  accident  left  upon  a  table  a  page  of  the  MS.  of  the  story 
he  had  in  hand.  The  paper  being  found,  the  clearness  and  roundness  of  the  writ 
ing  at  once  suggested  the  owner  to  the  attendant,  and  the  precious,  missing  leaf  was 
forwarded  to  Kensington. 


PERSONAL   APPEARANCE    OF  THACKERAY.     151 

to  fun"  on  occasions.  In  both  the  boy  appeared  easily;  and 
this  was  a  quality  of  Dickens's  genius,  as  it  was  of  my  fa 
ther's.  I  should  like  to  see  pictures  of  Thackeray  holding  a 
skein  of  silk  for  a  child  upon  his  broad  hands  ;  of  Dickens 
playing  at  leap-frog  or  rounders  :  of  Hawthorne  lying  in  the 
grass  listening  to  the  birds,  and  ducking  lest  the  passers  by 
should  interrupt  him  ;  and  of  Douglas  Jerrold  taking  part  in 
basting  the  bear  in  his  Kentish  orchard.  Mr.  Fields's  descrip 
tion  of  Hawthorne's  fun  at  sea,  and  of  his  grand  solitary  fig 
ure  under  the  stars  at  night,  might  stand  for  portraiture  of 
Thackeray. 

If  Thackeray  cast  upon  the  outer  world  an  austere  —  almost 
contemptuous  look  —  and  walked  the  streets  and  paced  the 
clubs  self-contained,  solitary,  —  it  was  because  he  was  an  ob 
server  of  human  nature,  indeed  of  all  nature.  You  stand 
away  to  examine  a  picture.  He  who  goes  to  observe  the 
Downs  on  a  Derby  day  does  not  take  three  sticks  at  Aunt 
Sally.  When  Thackeray  observed  a  child  at  play,  he  was 
touched  by  the  natural  flow  of  its  movements  and  the  natural 
philosophy  underlying  its  prattle.  Dickens  put  himself  under 
the  glossy  plumes  of  the  raven  in  the  happy  family,  and  dwelt 
unctuously  on  the  juiciness  of  the  youngster's  exposed  calves. 
The  difference,  I  have  thought,  having  often  come  upon  both 
at  busy  points  of  observation,  was  shown  in  their  attitude  to 
wards  the  world  when  in  the  thick  of  it.  Thackeray  sailed  ma 
jestically  along,  one  hand  thrust  in  his  pocket,  a  cultivated, 
fastidious,  high-bred  man,  deep-hearted  withal.  Dickens  had 
a  swifter  headway,  a  more  combative  and  a  compacter  air,  and 
bore  down  with  his  bright  eye  that  had  (to  use  Dore's  phrase 
to  me  applied  to  his  own  retentive  vision)  plenty  of  collodion 
in  it,  upon  every  human  countenance,  every  beggar's  limp,  or 
groundling's  daub  of  dirt.  Brave  and  loyal  workers  both,  who 
have  laid  the  world  under  immeasurable  debts  of  gratitude  to 
them  ;  they  held  along  opposite  sides  of  the  way,  and  at  each 
passing  man  and  woman  gazed,  albeit  they  knew  them  not, 
feeling  that- there  were  no  ordinary  men  abroad  that  day. 

It  was  with  Thackeray  as  with  Hawthorne.    The  grand,  sad 


152  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

mask  could  pucker  in  a  moment,  and  break  into  hearty  fun  and 
laughter.  A  friend  went  laughing  into  the  Reform  Club  one 
afternoon  ;  he  had  just  met  Thackeray  at  the  door  of  the  Athe 
naeum  Club.  He  had  had  a  dispute  with  his  cabman  about  the 
fare,  which  he  had  just  proposed  to  settle  by  a  toss.  If  Thack 
eray  won,  the  cabman  was  to  receive  two  shillings,  and  if  the 
toss  went  against  the  author  of  "  Vanity  Fair "  the  cabman 
was  to  receive  one  shilling.  Fortune  was  with  the  novelist ; 
and  he  dwelt  delightfully  afterwards  on  the  gentlemanly  man 
ner  in  which  the  driver  took  his  defeat.  Yet  there  were  times, 
and  many,  when  Thackeray  could  not  break  through  his  out 
ward  austerity,  even  when  passing  an  intimate  friend  in  the 
street.  I  and  a  mutual  friend  met  him  one  afternoon  in  Fleet 
Street,  ambling  to  Whitefriars  on  his  cob,  and  a  very  extraor 
dinary  figure  he  made.  He  caught  sight  of  us,  and  my  com 
panion  was  about  to  grasp  his  hand,  but  he  just  touched  his 
hat  with  his  finger,  and  without  opening  his  lips  or  relaxing 
the  solemn  cast  of  his  features,  he  passed  on.  My  companion 
stamped  his  foot  upon  the  pavement  and  cried,  "  Who  would 
think  that  we  were  up  till  four  o'clock  this  morning  together, 
and  that  he  sang  his  '  Reverend  Dr.  Luther,'  and  was  the  live 
liest  of  us." 

But  Thackeray  was  a  sick  man,  as  well  as  a  hard-worked 
one.  He  was  threatened  by  several  disorders  of  long  continu 
ance  ;  and  against  which  he  stoutly  fought,  turning  his  noble 
placid  face  bravely  upon  the  world  —  this  "great  Achilles 
whom  we  knew,"  and  who  was  most  loved  by  those  who  knew 
him  best.  Indeed  by  the  outer  world  —  by  those  with  whom 
he  came  in  contact  for  the  first  time  —  he  was  not  loved,  and 
not  often  liked.  His  address  was  as  polished  as  a  steel  mir 
ror,  and  as  cold.  In  the  "  Hoggarty  Diamond,"  in  that  exquisite 
chapter  given  to  Mr.  Titmarsh's  drive  with  Lady  Drum,  Mr. 
Samuel  observes  :  "  For  though  I  am  but  a  poor  fellow,  and 
hear  people  cry  out  how  vulgar  it  is  to  eat  peas  with  a  knife, 
or  ask  three  times  for  cheese,  and  such  like  points  of  cere 
mony,  there  's  something,  I  think,  much  more  vulgar  than  all 
this,  and  that  is  insolence  to  one's  inferiors.  I  hate  the  chap 


PERSONAL   APPEARANCE   OF  THACKERAY.     153 

that  uses  it,  as  I  scorn  him  of  humble  rank  that  affects  to  be 
of  the  fashion  ;  and  so  I  determined  to  let  Mr.  Preston  know 
a  piece  of  my  mind,"  And  Mr.  Preston  knew  it  accordingly. 
In  this  passage  there  is  the  key-note  of  the  wordly  side  of 
Thackeray's  character.  He  was  beloved  by  his  inferiors,  and 
reserved  his  hottest  scorn  for  those  pretenders  who,  buffeted 
and  cold-shouldered  by  those  in  whose  society  they  aspire  to 
mix,  take  their  revenge  upon  their  dependents. 

Testimonies  of  love,  of  friendship,  of  admiration,  in  records 
of  kindly  acts,  in  anecdotes  of  tender  heart,  in  passages  from 
his  works  illustrating  passages  of  his  life,  filled  the  papers  at 
that  mournful  Christmas-time  when  he  died.  The  instances  of 
his  kindly  and  unostentatious  help  to  many  of  his  young  liter 
ary  friends  might  be  given  by  the  score.  I  can  remember 
many  that  came  under  my  own  observation.  I  was  one  morn 
ing  at  Horace  Mayhew's  chambers  in  Regent  Street  when 
Thackeray  knocked  at  the  door,  and  cried  from  without  — 
"  It 's  no  use,  Porry  Mayhew  :  open  the  door." 

"  It 's  dear  old  Thackeray,"  said  Mayhew,  instinctively  put 
ting  chairs  and  table  in  order  to  do  honor  to  the  friend  of 
whom  he  never  spoke  without  pride,  and  without  adding,  —  "I 
know  dear  good  Thackeray  is  very  fond  of  me." 

Thackeray  came  in,  saying  cheerily  —  "  Well,  young  gentle 
men,  you  '11  admit  an  old  fogy." 

He  always  spoke  of  himself  as  an  old  man.  Between  him 
and  Mayhew  there  were  not  many  years.  He  took  up  the  pa 
pers  lying  about,  talked  the  gossip  of  the  day,  and  then  sud 
denly  said  —  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  —  "I  was  going  away 
without  doing  part  of  the  business  of  my  visit.  You  spoke 
the  other  day  at  the  dinner  (the  "  Punch  "  weekly-meeting)  of 
poor  George.  Somebody  —  most  unaccountably  —  has  re 
turned  me  a  five  pound  note  I  lent  him  a  long  time  ago.  I 
did  n't  expect  it :  —  so  just  hand  it  to  George  :  and  tell  him, 
when  his  pocket  will  bear  it,  to  pass  it  on  to  some  poor  fellow 
of  his  acquaintance.  By-bye."  A  nod  and  he  was  gone. 

This  was,  we  all  agreed,  very  like  "dear  old  Thackeray. 


154  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

THACKERAY —  YATES —  DICKENS. 

The  year  1858  was  marked  by  an  unfortunate  episode  the 
facts  of  which  cannot  be  omitted  from  this  narrative,  because 
though  trifling  in  their  origin,  they  finally  led  to  a  temporary 
estrangement  between  Mr.  Thackeray  and  his  great  brother 
novelist  Mr.  Dickens,  with  whom  he  had  hitherto  had  only 
relations  of  the  most  friendly  character.  On  the  I2th  of  June 
in  that  year  an  article  had  appeared  in  a  periodical  called 
"  Town  Talk,"  which  professed  to  give  an  account  of  Mr. 
Thackeray — his  appearance,  his  career,  and  his  success. 
The  article  was  coarse  and  offensive  in  tone,  but  it  was  noto 
rious  that  the  periodical  was  edited  by  a  clever  writer  of  the 
day,  well  known  to  Mr.  Thackeray  as  a  brother  member  of  a 
club  to  which  he  belonged.  As  such,  the  subject  of  the  at 
tack  felt  himself  compelled  to  take  notice  of  it.  In  order  to 
understand  the  resentment  displayed  by  the  latter  at  this  un 
provoked  attack,  it  is  necessary  to  quote  the  following  pas 
sage  from  the  article  :  — 

His  APPEARANCE. 

"  Mr.  Thackeray  is  forty-six  years  old,  though  from  the  sil 
very  whiteness  of  his  hair  he  appears  somewhat  older.  He 
is  very  tall,  standing' upwards  of  six  feet  two  inches  ;  and  as 
he  walks  erect,  his  height  makes  him  conspicuous  in  every  as 
sembly.  His  face  is  bloodless,  and  not  particularly  expres 
sive,  but  remarkable  for  the  fracture  of  the  bridge  of  the  nose, 
the  result  of  an  accident  in  youth.  He  wears  a  small  gray 
whisker,  but  otherwise  is  clean  shaven.  No  one  meeting  him 
could  fail  to  recognize  in  him  a  gentleman :  his  bearing  is 
cold  and  uninviting,  his  style  of  conversation  either  openly 
cynical,  or  affectedly  good-natured  and  benevolent ;  his  bon- 
hommie  is  forced,  his  wit  biting,  his  pride  easily  touched  — 
but  his  appearance  is  invariably  that  of  the  cool,  suave,  well- 
bred  gentleman,  who,  whatever  may  be  rankling  within,  suf 
fers  no  surface  display  of  his  emotion. 


THA  CKERA  Y—  YA  TES  —  DICKENS.  \  5  5 

His  SUCCESS, 

"  Commencing  *  with  '  Vanity  Fair,'  culminated  with  his 
4  Lectures  on  the  English  Humorists  of  the  Eighteenth  Cent 
ury,'  which  were  attended  by  all  the  court  and  fashion  of 
London.  The  prices  were  extravagant,  the  lecturer's  adula 
tion  of  birth  and  position  was  extravagant,  the  success  was 
extravagant.  No  one  succeeds  better  than  Mr.  Thackeray  in 
cutting  his  coat  according  to  his  cloth  :  here  he  flattered  the 
aristocracy,  but  when  he  crossed  the  Atlantic,  George  Wash 
ington  became  the  idol  of  his  worship,  the  i  Four  Georges  '  the 
objects  of  his  bitterest  attacks.  These  last-named  lectures 
have  been  dead  failures  in  England,  though  as  literary  compo 
sitions  they  are  most  excellent.  Our  own  opinion  is,  that  his 
success  is  on  the  wane  ;  his  writings  never  were  understood  or 
appreciated  even  by  the  middle  classes  ;  the  aristocracy  have 
been  alienated  by  his  American  onslaught  on  their  body,  and 
the  educated  and  refined  are  not  sufficiently  numerous  to  con 
stitute  an  audience  ;  moreover,  there  is  a  want  of  heart  in  all 
he  writes,  which  is  not  to  be  balanced  by  the  most  brilliant 
sarcasm,  and  the  most  perfect  knowledge  of  the  workings  of 
the  human  heart." 

Two  days  later  Mr.  Thackeray  addressed  the  assumed 
writer  of  this  article,  in  the  following  letter  :  — 

"  36  ONSLOW  SQUARE,  S-  W.,  June  14. 

"  SIR,  —  I  have  received  two  numbers  of  a  little  paper 
called  '  Town  Talk,'  containing  notices  respecting  myself,  of 
which,  as  I  learn  from  the  best  authority,  you  are  the  writer. 

"  In  the  first  article  of  i  Literary  Talk  '  you  think  fit  to  pub 
lish  an  incorrect  account  of  my  private  dealings  with  my  pub 
lishers. 

"  In  this  week's  number  appears  a  so-called  i  Sketch  '  con 
taining  a  description  of  my  manners,  person,  and  conversa 
tion,  and  an  account  of  my  literary  works,  which  of  course  you 
are  at  liberty  to  praise  or  condemn  as  a  literary  critic. 

"  But  you  state,  with  regard  to  my  conversation,  that  it  is 


156  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

either  '  frankly  cynical  or  affectedly  benevolent  and  good- 
natured  ; '  and  of  my  works  (Lectures),  that  in  some  I  showed 
'an  extravagant  adulation  of  rank  and  position,'  which  in 
other  lectures  ('  as  I  know  how  to  cut  my  coat  according  to 
my  cloth  ')  became  the  object  of  my  bitterest  attack. 

"  As  I  understand  your  phrases,  you  impute  insincerity  to 
me  when  I  speak  good-naturedly  in  private ;  assign  dishonor 
able  motives  to  me  for  sentiments  which  I  have  delivered  in 
public,  and  charge  me  with  advancing  statements  which  I 
have  never  delivered  at  all. 

"  Had  your  remarks  been  written  by  a  person  unknown  to 
me,  I  should  have  noticed  them  no  more  than  other  calum 
nies  ;  but  as  we  have  shaken  hands  more  than  once,  and  met 
hitherto  on  friendly  terms  (you  may  ask  one  of  your  employ 
ers,  Mr. ,  of ,  whether  I  did  not  speak  of  you  very 

lately  in  the  most  friendly  manner),  I  am  obliged  to  take 
notice  of  articles  which  I  consider  to  be  not  offensive  and  un 
friendly  merely,  but  slanderous  and  untrue. 

"  We  meet  at  a  club,  where,  before  you  were  born,  I  be 
lieve,  I  and  other  gentleman  have  been  in  the  habit  of  talking 
without  any  idea  that  our  conversation  would  supply  para 
graphs  for  professional  vendors  of  '  Literary  Talk  ; '  and  I 
don't  remember  that  out  of  that  club  I  have  ever  exchanged 
six  words  with  you.  Allow  me  to  inform  you  that  the  talk 
which  you  have  heard  there  is  not  intended  for  newspaper  re 
mark  ;  and  to  beg  —  as  I  have  a  right  to  do  —  that  you  will 
refrain  from  printing  comments  upon  my  private  conversa 
tions  ;  that  you  will  forego  discussions,  however  blundering, 
upon  my  private  affairs  ;  and  that  you  will  henceforth  please 
to  consider  any  question  of  my  personal  truth  and  sincerity  as 
quite  out  of  the  province  of  your  criticism.  I  am,  etc., 

"  W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

Subsequently  Mr.  Thackeray  "  rather  (he  said)  than  have 
any  further  correspondence  with  the  writer  of  the  character," 
determined  to  submit  the  letters  which  had  passed  between 
them  to  the  committee  of  the  club,  for  that  body  to  decide 


THA  CKERA  Y—  }  'A  TES  —  DICKENS.  1 5  / 

whether  the  practice  of  publishing  such  articles  would  not  be 
"  fatal  to  the  comfort  of  the  club,"  and  "  intolerable  in  a 
society  of  gentlemen."  The  committee  accordingly  met,  and 
decided  that  the  writer  of  the  attack  complained  of  was  bound 
to  make  an  ample  apology,  or  to  retire  from  the  club.  The 
latter  contested  the  right  of  the  committee  to  interfere.  Suits 
at  law  and  proceedings  in  chancery  against  the  committee 
were  threatened,  when  Mr.  Dickens,  who  was  also  a  member 
of  the  club,  interfered  with  the  following  letter  :  — 

"  TAVISTOCK  HOUSE,  TAVISTOCK  SQUARE,  LONDON,  W.  C. 
"  Wednesday,  2^tk  November  ^  1858. 

"  MY  DEAR  THACKERAY,  —  Without  a  word  of  prelude,  I 
wish  this  note  to  revert  to  a  subject  on  which  I  said  six  words 
to  you  at  the  Athenaeum  when  I  last  saw  you. 

"  Coming  home  from  my  country  work,  I  find  Mr.  Edwin 
James's  opinion  taken  on  this  painful  question  of  the  Garrick 
and  Mr.  Edmund  Yates.  I  find  it  strong  on  the  illegality  of 
the  Garrick  proceeding.  Not  to  complicate  this  note  or  give 
it  a  formal  appearance,  I  forbear  from  copying  the  opinion  ; 
but  I  have  asked  to  see  it,  and  I  have  it,  and  I  want  to  make 
no  secret  from  you  of  a  word  of  it. 

"  I  find  Mr.  Edwin  James  retained  on  the  one  side  ;  I  hear 
and  read  of  the  Attorney-general  being  retained  on  the  other. 
Let  me,  in  this  state  of  things,  ask  you  a  plain  question. 

"  Can  any  conference  be  held  between  me,  as  representing 
Mr.  Yates,  and  an  appointed  friend  of  yours,  as  representing 
you,  with  the  hope  and  purpose  of  some  quiet  accommodation 
of  this  deplorable  matter,  which  will  satisfy  the  feelings  of  all 
concerned  ? 

"  It  is  right  that,  in  putting  this  to  you,  I  should  tell  you 
that  Mr.  Yates,  when  you  first  wrote  to  him,  brought  your 
letter  to  me.  He  had  recently  done  me  a  manly  service  I  can 
never  forget,  in  some  private  distress  of  mine  (generally  within 
your  knowledge),  and  he  naturally  thought  of  me  as  his  friend 
in  an  emergency.  *  I  told  him  that  his  article  was  not  to  be 
defended  ;  but  I  confirmed  him  in  his  opinion  that  it  was  not 
reasonably  possible  for  him  to  set  right  what  was  amiss,  on 


T  5  8  WILLIAM  MAKE  PEA  CE    THA  CKERA  Y. 

the  receipt  of  a  letter  couched  in  the  very  strong  terms  you 
had  employed.  When  you  appealed  to  the  Garrick  committee 
and  they  called  their  General  Meeting,  I  said  at  that  meeting 
that  you  and  I  had  been  on  good  terms  for  many  years,  and 
that  I  was  very  sorry  to  find  myself  opposed  to  you  ;  but  that 
I  was  clear  that  the  committee  had  nothing  on  earth  to  do 
with  it,  and  that  in  the  strength  of  my  conviction  I  should  go 
against  them. 

"  If  this  mediation  that  I  have  suggested  can  take  place,  I 
shall  be  heartily  glad  to  do  my  best  in  it  —  and  God  knows  in 
no  hostile  spirit  towards  any  one,  least  of  all  to  you.  If  it 
cannot  take  place,  the  thing  is  at  least  no  worse  than  it  was  ; 
and  you  will  burn  this  letter,  and  I  will  burn  your  answer. 

"  Yours  faithfully,  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

"  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Esq." 

To  this  Mr.  Thackeray  replied  :  — 

"  36  ONFLOW  SQUARE,  26th  November,  1858 

"  DEAR  DICKENS,  —  I  grieve  to  gather  from  your  letter  that 
you  were  Mr.  Yates's  adviser  in  the  dispute  between  me  and 
him.  His  letter  was  the  cause  of  my  appeal  to  the  Garrick 
Club  for  protection  from  insults  against  which  I  had  no  other 
remedy. 

"  I  placed  my  grievance  before  the  committee  of  the  club 
as  the  only  place  where  I  have  been  accustomed  to  meet  Mr. 
Yates.  They  gave  their  opinion  of  his  conduct  and  of  the 
reparation  which  lay  in  his  power.  Not  satisfied  with  their 
sentence,  Mr.  Yates  called  for  a  General  Meeting  ;  and,  the 
meeting  which  he  had  called  having  declared  against  him,  he 
declines  the  jurisdiction  which  he  had  asked  for,  and  says  he 
will  have  recourse  to  lawyers. 

li  You  say  that  Mr.  Edwin  James  is  strongly  of  opinion  that 
the  conduct  of  the  club  is  illegal.  On  this  point  I  can  give 
no  sort  of  judgment :  nor  can  I  conceive  that  the  club  will  be 
frightened,  by  the  opinion  of  any  lawyer,  out  of  their  own 
sense  of  the  justice  and  honor  which  ought  to  obtain  among 
gentlemen 


THACKERA  Y—  YA  TES  —  DICKENS.  I  59 

•'  Ever  since  I  submitted  my  case  to  the  club,  I  have  had, 
and  can  have,  no  part  in  the  dispute.  It  is  for  them  to  judge 
if  any  reconcilement  is  possible  with  your  friend.  I  subjoin 
the  copy  of  a  letter  which  I  wrote  to  the  committee,  and  refer 
you  to  them  for  the  issue. 

"  Yours,  etc.,  W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

"  C.  Dickens,  Esq." 

The  inclosure  referred  to  was  as  follows  :  — 

"  ONSI.OW  SQUARE,  Nov.  28,  1858 

"  GENTLEMEN,  —  I  have  this  day  received  a  communication 
from  Mr.  Charles  Dickens,  relative  to  the  dispute  which  has 
been  so  long  pending,  in  which  he  says  :  — 

"  i  Can  any  conference  be  held  between  me  as  representing 
Mr.  Yates,  and  any  appointed  friend  of  yours,  as  representing 
you,  in  the  hope  and  purpose  of  some  quiet  accommodation  of 
this  deplorable  matter,  which  will  satisfy  the  feelings  of  all 
parties  ? ' 

"  I  have  written  to  Mr.  Dickens  to  say,  that  since  the  com 
mencement  of  this  business,  I  have  placed  myself  entirely  in 
the  hands  of  the  committee  of  the  Garrick,  and  am  still  as 
ever  prepared  to  abide  by  any  decision  at  which  they  may 
arrive  on  the  subject.  I  conceive  I  cannot,  if  I  would,  make 
the  dispute  once  more  personal,  or  remove  it  out  of  the  court 
to  which  I  submitted  it  for  arbitration. 

"  If  you  can  devise  any  peaceful  means  for  ending  it,  no  one 
will  be  better  pleased  than 

"  Your  obliged  faithful  servant, 

"  W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

"  The  Committee  of  the  Garrick  Club." 

It  would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  to  conceal  that  this  painful 
affair  left  a  coolness  between  Mr.  Thackeray  and  his  brother 
novelist.  Mr.  Thackeray,  smarting  under  the  elaborate  and 
unjust  attack,  portions  of  which  were  copied  and  widely  cir 
culated  in  other  journals,  could  not  but  regard  the  friend  and 
adviser  of  his  critic  as  in  some  degree  associated  with  it ;  and 
Mr.  Dickens,  on  the  other  hand,  naturally  hurt  at  finding  his 


1 60  WILLIAM  MAKEPEA  CE    THA  CKERA  Y. 

offer  of  arbitration  rejected,  gave  the  letters  to  the  original 
author  of  the  trouble  for  publication,  with  the  remark  :  "  As 
the  receiver  of  my  letter  did  not  respect  the  confidence  in 
which  it  addressed  him,  there  can  be  none  left  for  you  to 
violate.  I  send  you  what  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Thackeray,  and  what 
he  wrote  to  me,  and  you  are  at  perfect  liberty  to  print  the 
two."  Thus,  for  a  while,  ended  this  painful  affair.  Readers 
of  Disraeli's  "  Quarrels  of  Authors  "  will  miss  in  it  those 
sterner  features  of  the  dissensions  between  literary  men  as 
they  were  conducted  in  the  old  times  ;  but  none  can  contem 
plate  this  difference  between  the  two  great  masters  of  fiction 
of  our  day  with  other  than  feelings  of  regret  for  the  causes 
which  led  to  it. 

It  is  pleasing,  however,  to  learn  that  the  differences  be 
tween  them  were  ended  before  Mr.  Thackeray's  death. 
Singularly  enough,  this  happy  circumstance  occurred  only  a 
few  days  before  the  time  when  it  would  have  been  too  late. 
The  two  great  authors  met  by  accident  in  the  lobby  of  a  club. 
They  suddenly  turned  and  saw  each  other,  and  the  unre 
strained  impulse  of  both  was  to  hold  out  the  hand  of  forgive 
ness  and  fellowship.  With  that  hearty  grasp  the  difference 
which  estranged  them  ceased  forever. 

ROBERT  BELL'S  WATCH. 

Louis  Blanc,  the  historian  of  the  French  Revolution,  has 
recently  related  in  a  French  newspaper  the  following  story : 
•'A  few  years  ago  the  London  papers  announced  that  a 
Frenchman,  whose  name  I  need  not  give  you  [M.  Louis  Blanc 
himself],  was  going  to  deliver  in  English  what  is  here  called  a 
lecture.  Foremost  among  those  who  were  moved  by  a  feeling 
of  delicate  kindness  and  hospitable  curiosity  to  encourage  the 
lecturer  with  their  presence,  was  Thackeray.  When  the  lect 
ure  was  over,  the  manager  of  the  literary  institution  where  it 
was  delivered,  for  some  reason  or  other,  recommended  the 
company  to  take  care  of  their  pockets  in  the  crowd  at  the 
doors  —  a  hint  which  was  not  particularly  to  the  taste  of  a 
highly  respectable  and  even  distinguished  audience.  Some 


THACKERAY^S  LITERARY  CAREER.  l6l 

oven  protested,  and  none  more  warmly  than  an  unknown  per 
son,  very  well  dressed,  sitting  next  to  Mr.  Robert  Bell.  Not 
content  with  speaking,  this  unknown  person  gesticulated  in  a 
singularly  animated  manner.  *  Is  n't  such  a  suggestion  in 
decent,  sir  —  insulting  ?  '  said  he  to  Mr.  Bell.  '  What  does  he 
take  us  for  ? '  etc.,  etc.  After  giving  vent  to  his  indignation  in 
this  way  for  some  moments,  the  susceptible  stranger  disap 
peared,  and  when  Mr.  Robert  Bell,  who  wanted  to  know  how 
long  the  lecture  had  lasted,  put  his  hand  to  his  watch-pocket, 
behold !  his  watch  had  disappeared  likewise.  Thackeray,  to 
whom  his  excellent  friend  mentioned  the  mishap,  invited 
Robert  Bell  to  dinner  a  day  or  two  after.  When  the  day  came, 
Robert  Bell  took  his  seat  at  his  friend's  table,  round  which  a 
joyous  company  of  wits  were  gathered,  and  soon  found  him 
self  encircled  by  a  rattling  fire  of  banter  about  an  article  of 
his  which  had  just  appeared  in  the  i  Cornhill  Magazine,'  then 
conducted  by  Thackeray ;  an  article  remarkable  in  all  re 
spects,  and  which  had  attracted  universal  notice,  as  a  faithful, 
serious,  and  philosophical  account  of  some  effects  of  Spiritual 
ism  which  the  author  had  witnessed  at  a  seance  given  by  Mr. 
Home.  Mr.  Robert  Bell  is  an  admirable  causeur ;  his  talk  is 
a  happy  mixture  of  an  Englishman's  good  sense  and  an  Irish 
man's  verve.  So  his  questioners  found  their  match  in  brilliant 
fence.  Next  day  a  mysterious  messenger  arrived  at  Mr. 
Robert  Bell's,  and  handed  to  him,  without  saying  who  had 
sent  it,  a  box  containing  a  note,  worded,  as  nearly  as  I  recol 
lect,  as  follows  :  '  The  Spirits  present  their  compliments  to 
Mr.  Robert  Bell,  and  as  a  mark  of  their  gratitude  to  him,  they 
have  the  honor  to  return  him  the  watch  that  was  stolen  from 
him.'  And  a  watch  it  really  was  that  the  box  contained, 
but  a  watch  far  finer  and  richer  than  the  one  which  had  disap 
peared.  Mr.  Robert  Bell  at  once  thought  of  Thackeray,  and 
wrote  to  him  without  further  explanation  :  '  I  don't  know  if  it 
is  to  you,  but  it  is  very  like  you.'  Thackeray  in  reply  sent  a 
caricature  portrait  of  himself,  drawn  by  his  own  hand,  and 
representing  a  winged  spirit  in  a  flowing  robe,  and  spectacles 
on  nose.  Thackeray  had  in  early  life  taken  to  painting,  and 


1 62  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY, 

perhaps  if  he  had  pursued  his  first  vocation,  he  might  have 
come  in  time  to  handle  the  brush  as  well  as  he  afterwards 
handled  the  pen.  At  any  rate  the  drawing  in  question  as  I 
can  bear  witness,  was  one  to  bring  tears  into  your  eyes  for 
laughing.  It  was  accompanied  by  a  note  as  follows  :  i  The 
Spirit  Gabriel  presents  his  compliments  to  Mr.  Robert  Bell, 
and  takes  the  liberty  to  communicate  to  him  the  portrait  of 
the  person  who  stole  the  watch.'  Now,  is  not  this  bit  of  a 
story  charming  ?  What  grace  !  what  delicacy  !  what  humor  in 
this  inspiration  of  a  friend  who,  to  punish  his  friend  for  hav 
ing  done  the  Spirits  the  honor  to  speak  of  them,  sends  him 
with  a  smile  a  magnificent  present.  Honorable  to  Thackeray, 
this  anecdote  is  equally  so  to  Robert  Bell,  who  could  inspire 
such  feelings  in  such  a  man.  And  this  is  why  I  feel  a  double 
pleasure  in  relating  it." 

THACKERAY'S  LAST  ILLNESS. 

His  hand  had  been  missed  in  the  last  two  numbers  of  the 
"  Cornhill  Magazine,"  but  only  because  he  had  been  engaged 
in  laying  the  foundation  of  another  of  those  continuous  works 
of  fiction  which  his  readers  so  eagerly  expected.  In  the  then 
current  number  of  the  "  Cornhill  Magazine,"  the  customary 
orange-colored  fly-leaf  had  announced  that  "  a  new  serial 
story  "  by  him  would  be  commenced  early  in  the  new  year ; 
but  the  promise  had  scarcely  gone  abroad  when  we  learnt  that 
the  hand  which  had  penned  its  opening  chapters,  in  the  full 
prospect  of  a  happy  ending,  could  never  again  add  line  or 
word  to  that  long  range  of  writings  which  must  always  remain 
one  of  the  best  evidences  of  the  strength  and  beauty  of  our 
English  speech. 

On  the  Tuesday  preceding  he  had  followed  to  the  grave  his 
relative,  Lady  Rodd,  widow  of  Vice-admiral  Sir  John  Tre- 
mayne  Rodd,  K.  C.  B.,  who  was  the  daughter  of  Major  James 
Rennell,  F.  R.  S.,  Surveyor-general  of  Bengal,  by  the  daughter 
of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Thackeray,  Head  Master  of  Harrow  School. 
Only  the  day  before  this,  according  to  a  newspaper  account, 
he  had  been  congratulating  himself  on  having  finished  four 


THACKERAY'S  LAST  ILLNESS.  163 

numbers  of  a  new  novel ;  he  had  the  manuscript  in  his  pocket, 
and  with  a  boyish  frankness  showed  the  last  pages  to  a  friend, 
asking  him  to  read  them  and  see  what  he  could  make  of  them. 
When  he  had  completed  four  numbers  more  he  said  he  would 
subject  himself  to  the  skill  of  a  very  clever  surgeon,  and  be 
no  more  an  invalid.  Only  two  days  before  he  had  been  seen 
at  his  club  in  high  spirits  ;  but  with  all  his  high  spirits,  he  did 
not  seem  well  ;  he  complained  of  illness  ;  but  he  was  often  ill, 
and  he  laughed  off  his  present  attack.  He  said  that  he  was 
about  to  undergo  some  treatment  which  would  work  a  perfect 
cure  in  his  system,  and  so  he  made  light  of  his  malady.  He 
was  suffering  from  two  distinct  complaints,  one  of  which  had 
now  wrought  his  death.  More  than  a  dozen  years  before, 
while  he  was  writing  "  Pendennis,"  the  publication  of  that 
work  was  stopped  by  his  serious  illness.  He  was  brought  to 
death's  door,  and  he  was  saved  from  death  by  Dr.  Elliotson, 
to  whom,  in  gratitude,  he  dedicated  the  novel  when  he  lived  to 
finish  it.  But  ever  since  that  ailment  he  had  been  subject 
every  month  or  six  weeks  to  attacks  of  sickness,  attended  with 
violent  retching.  He  was  congratulating  himself,  just  before 
his  death,  on  the  failure  of  his  old  enemy  to  return,  and  then 
he  checked  himself,  as  if  he  ought  not  to  be  too  sure  of  a  re 
lease  from  his  plague.  On  the  morning  of  Wednesday,  the 
23d  of  December,  the  complaint  returned,  and  he  was  in 
great  suffering  all  day.  He  was  no  better  in  the  evening,  and 
his  valet,  Charles  Sargent,  left  him  at  eleven  o'clock  on 
Wednesday  night,  Mr.  Thackeray  wishing  him  "  Good-night  " 
as  he  went  out  of  the  room.  At  nine  o'clock  on  the  following 
morning  the  valet  entering  his  master's  chamber  as  usual, 
found  him  lying  on  his  back  quite  still,  with  his  arms  spread 
over  the  coverlet,  but  he  took  no  notice,  as  he  was  accustomed 
to  see  his  master  thus  after  one  of  his  stomach  attacks.  He 
brought  some  coffee  and  set  it  down  beside  the  bed,  and  it 
was  only  when  he  returned  after  an  interval  and  found  that 
the  cup  had  not  been  tasted,  that  a  sudden  alarm  seized  him, 
and  he  discovered  that  his  master  was  dead.  About  midnight 
Mr.  Thackeray's  mother,  who  slept  overhead,  had  heard  him 


164  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

get  up  and  walk  about  his  room ;  but  she  was  not  alarmed,  as 
this  was  a  habit  of  her  son  when  unwell.  It  is  supposed  that 
he  had,  in  fact,  been  seized  at  this  time,  and  that  the  violence 
of  the  attack  had  brought  on  the  effusion  on  the  brain  — 
which,  as  the  post-mortem  examination  showed,  was  the  im 
mediate  cause  of  death.  His  medical  attendants  attributed  his 
death  to  effusion  on  the  brain,  and  added  that  he  had  a  very 
large  brain,  weighing  no  less  than  58^  oz.  He  thus  died  of 
the  complaint  which  seemed  to  trouble  him  least. 

SHIRLEY  BROOKS  ON  THACKERAY. 

Born  a  gentleman,  educated  at  a  university,  and  very  soon 
induced  to  devote  himself  to  authorship,  an  occupation  which, 
after  a  determined  but  not  disagreeable  struggle,  gave  him 
fame  and  prosperity — Mr.  Thackeray  underwent  few  of  the 
adventures  which  he  has  described  so  well,  or  others  of  a 
rougher  order.  Nor  did  his  well-regulated  mind  permit  him 
to  indulge  in  the  passions,  follies,  or  tentative  efforts  which 
have  made  the  lives  of  so  many  men  hard  living  but  agreeable 
reading.  Sir  Walter  Scott's  history  as  an  author  is  varied  by 
the  story  of  a  mystery  more  wonderfully  kept  than  that  in  any 
of  the  sensation  tales  of  our  day,  and  by  the  story  of  a  grand 
speculation  which  brought  about  a  ruin  more  nobly  repaired 
than  ever  was  similar  imprudence  atoned  for.  Byron's  life 
was  full  of  real  romance,  vulgarized  into  mock  romance  by  the 
vanity  and  mystifying  tendencies  of  the  man,  and  by  the  ma 
levolent  propensities  of  those  who  refused  to  see  the  diamond 
because  it  was  in  brass  and  backed  with  tinsel.  In  the  story 
of  Burns  we  have  a  constant  and  painful  struggle  of  genius 
with  frailty,  and  are  everywhere  reminded,  as  in  the  noble 
lines  of  Marlowe, 

"  How  angels,  in  their  crystal  armor,  fight 
A  doubtful  battle  with  our  tempted  thoughts.*' 

And  we  doubt  not  that  when  the  lives  of  many  men  of  the 
present  day,  who  have  attained  much  literary  eminence,  though 
far  less  than  Thackeray,  come  to  the  press,  it  will  be  seen 
that  living  authors,  like  their  betters,  "have  had  buffets." 


SHIRLEY  BROOKS  ON  THACKERAY.  165 

But  in  Thackeray's  career,  so  far  as  the  world  can  ever  know 
it,  there  is  little  of  which  a  biographer  can  make  points.  The 
story  of  his  inner  life  and  troubles  would  doubtless  have  been 
one  of  deep  interest.  The  loss  of  fortune,  and  a  still  severer 
trial  to  his  loving  nature  —  a  trial  to  which  this  is  our  first  and 
last  reference  —  must  have  given  him  hours  and  hours  of  care 
and  sorrow  ;  and,  had  he  chosen  to  place  these  on  record, 
and  (after  the  fashion  of  sundry  French  and  English  egotist 
ical  psychologists)  to  lay  bare  his  own  soul  to  the  world,  we 
might  have  had  an  autobiography  inferior  to  none  in  that 
special  interest  which  self-depiction,  performed  by  a  master's 
hand,  must  ever  offer.  But  he  has  not  done  this,  and  none 
can  presume  to  supply  what  he  has  chosen  to  withhold.  It 
was  not  that  he  shunned  the  world's  eye  —  we  all  feel  at  this 
moment  how  endeared  he  was  to  us  by  his  delightful  habit  of 
treating  us  all  as  his  friends,  and  of  confiding  to  us  his  "  little 
miseries,"  telling  us  how  discourteous  were  some  of  the  small 
enemies  who  attacked  him,  and  how  unreasonable  were  the 
small  friends  who  besieged  him.  He  was  of  much  too  healthy 
a  mind  to  fear  to  walk  about  in  his  habit  as  he  lived  in  private, 
and  he  never  shrouded  himself  in  mysteries,  nor  broke  upon 
us,  at  stated  seasons,  in  a  blaze  of  glory.  Simple,  natural,  and 
a  gentleman,  he  was  ever  as  frank  as  those  who  live  in  good 
society  are  usually  found.  But  his  great  griefs  he  kept  to 
himself,  and  would  have  instantly  recoiled  from  the  idea  of 
making  money  or  fame  by  a  revelation  of  the  pulsations  of  a 
troubled  heart.  Hence,  his  outside  life  having  been  without 
adventure,  and  his  inner  life  a  secret  between-  his  Maker  and 
himself,  his  biographer  has  little  to  tell  save  what  all  know. 

The  "grand  county"  may  add  his  name  to  the  roll  of  great, 
and  brave,  and  good  men  who  have  come  from  Yorkshire. 
His  father  was  in  the  civil  service  of  the  East  India  Company; 
and  his  mother,  who  has  lived  to  behold  a  people  in  sorrow 
for  the  son  who  was  so  devoted  to  her,  is  understood  to  claim 
a  descent  of  equally  sturdy  English  character  from  the  real 
old  English  who  inhabit  the  principality.  So  he  is  England's 
by  every  right  of  pedigree.  His  grandfather  was  a  clergyman 


1 66  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

of  the  Established  Church.  William  Makepeace  Thackeray 
was  born  in  Calcutta  in  the  year  1811,  and  soon  came  to  this 
country.  He  was  a  Charterhouse  boy  and  a  Cambridge  man. 
His  last  public  appearance  was  at  the  Charterhouse  dinner, 
and  he  gave  the  time-honored  Latin  toast  (which  prays  for 
prosperity  to  the  great  foundation)  with  a  heartiness  which 
was  sadly  remembered  by  some  who  heard  him,  and  who  stood 
by  his  open  grave  a  few  days  later.  He  has  not  made  much 
formal  use  of  his  college  experiences,  but  they  crop  up,  ever 
and  anon,  in  his  writings  ;  and  in  that  delightful  "  Shabby 
Genteel  Story,"  the  foundation  upon  which,  years  after,  he 
based  the  history  of  "  Philip,"  we  find  some  early  sketches  of 
disreputable  collegians.  But  he  knew  good  men  and  true 
while  at  Cambridge,  and  preserved  their  friendship  till  the 
hour  when  friendship  is  ended. 

Thackeray's  own  inclination  was  for  the  life  of  an  artist. 
To  his  last  day  he  was  an  earnest  and  devoted  lover  of  art 
and  of  its  professors  ;  and  it  is  remarkable  that,  large  as  was 
the  number  of  distinguished  men  of  his  own  calling  who  came 
round  his  grave,  the  assemblage  of  first-rate  artists  was  almost 
as  large.  There  stood  Millais  and  Marochetti,  and  Redgrave  ; 
Creswick,  O'Neil,  and  Cruikshank  ;  Leech,  and  Teniel,  and 
Doyle  ;  Munro,  Du  Maurier,  Walker,  and  Phillips,  and  others 
whose  faces  we  saw  as  faces  are  seen  at  such  a  moment, 
whose  presence  we  recognize  when  names  do  not  always  arise 
to  the  mind.  He  had  ever  the  largest  praise  for  the  artist  who 
had  made  a  reputation,  the  kindest  word  for  him  who  was  strug 
gling  on  an  upward  course,  and  the  most  open  hand  for  the 
artist  who  was  neither  successful  nor  advancing.  Intending 
to  educate  himself  for  painting,  he  travelled  much,  and,  as 
happens  to  many  men,  he  was  really  educating  himself  in  the 
finest  and  wisest  manner  for  another  art  than  that  which  he 
thought  he  was  studying.  And  upon  this  path  he  soon 
entered,  and  trod  it  to  the  last.  He  was  fortunate,  we  think, 
in  not  beginning  authorship  too  young.  He  had  not,  as 
Douglas  Jerrold  said,  "  to  take  down  the  shutters  before  there 
was  anything  in  the  shop  windows."  He  had  been  well  edu- 


SHIRLEY  BROOKS  ON  THACKERAY.  l6/ 

cated,  had  moved  in  refined  society,  had  seen  much  of  the 
world,  and  had  his  mind  ennobled  and  enriched  by  the  study 
of  art,  where  she  shows  proudest,  before  he  took  pen  in  hand. 
Hence,  an  observer  of  style  will  see  that  even  in  his  earliest 
writings  there  is  an  absence  of  strain  and  flutter,  and  a  com 
posed  and  reticent  tone.  He  knew  that  he  had  plenty  to  say, 
and  hence  he  did  not  find  it  necessary  to  beat  out  his  gold 
into  the  thinnest  leaf  ;  he  knew  that  what  he  said  was  worth 
hearing,  hence  he  had  no  recourse  to  devices  or  affectations  to 
attract  attention  ;  and  he  knew  that  he  was  able  to  tell  his 
story  well,  and  hence  he  told  it  in  his  own  manner,  and  calmly 
waited  its  acceptance  by  the  hearers.  We  do  not  imply  any 
censure  upon  those  who  have  not  possessed  his  advantages, 
and  who  have  had  to  learn  to  rid  themselves,  one  by  one,  of 
the  blemishes  from  which  Thackeray  was  so  singularly  free. 
It  is  greatly  to  a  writer's  praise  that  he  has  taught  himself 
what  Thackeray  knew  at  starting.  We  merely  dwell  with 
pleasant  memory  upon  the  finish  and  composure  of  his  early 
style.  It  strengthened  with  his  strength,  and,  long  before  the 
end,  had  been  universally  recognized  as  the  purest  and  best 
English  of  the  day  — 

"  Strong,  without  rage:  without  o'erflowing,  full." 

Henceforth  the  story  of  his  life  is  little  more  than  a  recital 
of  the  dates  of  his  works.  Before  he  became  famous  he  wrote 
for  many  of  the  journals  ;  and  a  tribute,  as  graceful  as  unex 
pected,  from  the  editor  of  the  "  Examiner,"  has  revealed  the 
fact  that  the  brilliant  pen  of  Thackeray  pointed  many  of  the 
epigrammatic  articles  for  which  that  journal  obtained  a  reputa 
tion  which  it  has  now  regained.  In  "  Eraser's  Magazine," 
however,  he  found  the  amplest  range  for  his  powers  of  sar 
casm  and  of  humor  ;  and  under  the  name  of  Michael  Angelo 
Titmarsh  (a  characteristic  blending  of  grand  and  little  for 
satiric  purpose)  he  published  some  of  the  very  best  of  his 
minor  works  —  minor  only  in  the  sense  that  they  are  of 
smaller  extent  than  his  grand  novels,  as  an  exquisite  cameo  is 
minor  beside  a  finished  statue,  not  beside  a  stone  mason's 
giant.  "  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond  "  is  one  of  the  most 


1 68  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

remarkable  of  these  tales,  and  through  all  its  humor  comes 
the  lesson  he  ever  taught,  —  that  of  manliness  and  hopefulness. 
The  "  Shabby  Genteel  Story"  was  also  in  "  Fraser ;  "  and 
who  will  ever  forget  that  dinner  at  Margate,  and  the  duel  with 
the  painter,  and  the  fat  lady  getting  up  in  a  hurry  to  rescue 
her  red-bearded,  valiant  cockney  ?  A  powerful  paper,  in 
which  he  described  the  execution  of  Courvoisier,  and  de 
nounced  the  system  of  public  executions,  was  another  of  his 
contributions  ;  and  we  have,  unfortunately,  no  space  to  go 
through  the  list,  very  pleasant  as  it  would  be  to  note,  in  the 
spirit  in  which  talks  to  a  friend  of  the  good  deeds  of  a  lost 
friend,  the  delightful  papers  which  used  to  make  "  Fraser  "  a 
work  to  be  eagerly  scrambled  for  in  public  places  by  those 
who  had  imperative  claims  on  their  half-crowns,  and  therefore 
read  no  magazines  in  luxurious  privacy. 

In  a  good  day  for  himself,  the  journal,  and  the  world, 
Thackeray  joined  "  Punch."  Here  he  had  more  ample  play 
for  all  his  faculties  than  had  been  ever  offered  him.  An 
epigram  in  two  lines,  a  sketch  in  two  pages,  a  head-piece, 
a  tail-piece,  a  caricature,  a  pregnant  initial,  a  jovial  song  (are 
we  thinking  of  the  "  Mahogany  Tree  "  ?),  an  Irish  chant  of  ri 
diculous  treason  (say  the  "  Limerick  Tragedy "),  a  versified 
fable  for  the  instruction  of  Lords  and  Princes  ("  Silly  Little 
Finches  "),  a  tale  in  many  chapters  ("  Jeames's  History  "),  or 
a  series  of  essays  ("  The  Snob  Papers  "),  —  all  were  welcome 
and  welcomed.  And  as  companions  at  the  hospitable  board  of 
council,  where  such  things  were  conceived,  suggested,  re 
viewed,  and  admired,  he  sat  with  two  who  have  preceded  him 
to  the  world  of  shadows,  and  with  some  who  live  to  mourn 
him.  Douglas  Jerrold  and  Gilbert  A'Becket  were  his  neigh 
bors  at  those  feasts,  and  none  appreciated  more  keenly  than 
Thackeray  the  magical  quickness  and  sparkle  of  the  wit's 
repartees,  or  the  ever-ready,  shrewd,  and  kindly  talk  of  the 
humorist.  Others  who  were  of  the  happy  party,  and  who  read 
these  lines,  will  silently  testify  to  their  truth,  and  add  that  for 
each  and  for  all  who  sat  with  Thackeray  at  that  board  there 
was  always  the  quaint  greeting  that  dignified  the  friend  with 


SHIRLEY  BROOKS  ON  THACKERAY.  169 

some  American  military  title,  the  instant  and  intensely  com 
pact  gratulation  upon  any  public  success  or  private  good  for 
tune,  the  eagerness  to  give  information  ;  the  electric  readiness 
to  catch  the  knavish  speech  that  sleeps  in  the  foolish  ear 
but  never  had  a  wink  in  Thackeray's  ;  the  kindly  retort  that 
seemed  meant  but  to  show  you  that  you  had  spoken  well ;  and 
then,  better  than  all  word-pleasantry,  there  were  the  ever- 
beaming  kindness,  the  lofty  moral,  the  lowly  charity,  and  the 
noble  heart  that  was  so  true  to  the  noble  brain.  This  is  a 
sketch  —  and  a  very  inadequate  one  —  from  private  life  ;  and 
yet  we  do  not  think  that  any  one  who  reads  it  will  blame  the 
writer.  As  Thackeray  is  here  described,  he  was,  as  a  hun 
dred  friends  will  testify,  whenever  he  felt  himself  "at  home," 
and  it  is  because  some  wretched  talk  of  his  supposed  "  cyni 
cism  "  has  got  abroad,  and  because  such  talk  has  come  from 
those  who  have  known  scarcely  at  all,  that  it  is  well  for  once 
and  for  all  to  say  that  William  Thackeray  was  one  of  the 
cheerfullest  and  cheeriest  of  men  who  ever  gladdened  the 
heart  of  a  friend. 

He  went  back  to  the  East,  but  not  very  far,  and  recorded 
his  travels  in  the  "  Notes  of  a  Journey  from  Cornhill  to  Cairo." 
They  are  full  of  humor  and  wisdom,  and  the  kind  heart  is 
always  speaking  out.  The  pretty  verses  on  the  dawn  at  sea, 
suggest  thoughts  which  it  would  now  be  sacrilege  to  print ; 
but  we  may  remember  the  indignant  protest  against  the  ac 
ceptance  by  Christian  England  of  an  ally  who  had  actually 
ordered  the  murder  of  a  baby,  and  the  semi-serious  strain  in 
which  Oriental  brutality  is  exposed  in  the  story  of  the  Pacha 
who,  while  talking  with  the  Oxford  tutor,  exported  to  teach 
the  little  infidels,  was  bothered  by  a  fellah,  and  then  and  there, 
taking  out  a  pistol,  "  shot  that  fellah  dead,  so  that  he  never 
bothered  any  more."  The  varnish  which  sentimentalists  lay 
over  foulness  never  had  a  chance  with  Thackeray.  Then 
there  are  the  tremendous  adventures  of  that  Irish  Indian 
Major,  which  make  the  tale  the  most  ludicrous  book  since 
Munchausen,  with  the  addition  of  being  intensely  interesting, 
in  spite  of  the  elephantine  exaggeration.  "  Our  Street  "  is  a 


I7O  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

gallery  of  social  portraits,  drawn  with  a  master's  facility  ;  and 
the  "  Rose  and  the  Ring  "  has  made  the  author  the  children's 
friend,  as,  indeed,  he  deserved  to  be  held,  for  the  love  of 
children  runs  like  a  silver  thread  through  every  story  he  ever 
wrote.  We  believe  that  he  never  thoroughly  hated  Becky 
Sharp  except  when  she  kept  her  boy  in  the  kitchen,  kissed 
him  before  company,  and  slapped  his  face  outside  the  door. 
Thackeray  never  sends  the  children  to  the  nursery,  never 
seems  to  find  them  in  the  way ;  and  is  always  completing 
people's  happiness  by  giving  them  a  baby,  or  a  "  toddler,"  to 
bring  sunshine  into  the  house.  The  little  girl  in  Gray's 
chambers,  when  the  wonderful  dinner  is  given  by  the  poor 
young  barrister  and  his  pretty  wife,  to  the  great,  rich  Gold- 
more,  is  the  most  prominent  feature  in  the  picture.  What  does 
the  author  of  the  "  Curate's  Walk  "  say  about  children,  and  do 
for  them  in  that  most  delightful  sketch,  than  which  Steele 
never  wrote  anything  better  ?  He  was  always  rejoicing  with  the 
young,  this  cynic,  —  both  in  the  pen  and  in  the  flesh.  Many 
sentimentalists  do  neither  the  one  thing  nor  the  other,  and 
yet  talk  of  cynicism  as  a  thing  apart  from  their  beautiful 
natures. 

"Vanity  Fair,"  "  Pendennis,"  "Esmond,"  "The  Virgin 
ians."  There  is  the  Thackeray  Quadrilateral,  which  will  de 
fend  his  name  and  fame  against  all  comers.  It  may  be  that 
one  fortress  mounts  more  guns  than  another  —  that  is  matter 
of  opinion-  When  one  gives  way  we  shall  be  ready  to  con 
sider  whether  the  engineer  neglected  any  part  of  his  work, 
but  not  till  then.  There,  guarded  to  all  time  worth  speaking 
of,  is  the  reputation  of  William  Thackeray.  Of  these  strong 
holds  we  need  say  no  more.  He  was  erecting  a  fifth  when 
called  away.  It  was  not  needed  for  the  safety  of  his  fame, 
but  would  that  it  had  arisen. 

There  is  another  point  of  view  from  which  we  must  regard 
him  ;  and  few  who  have  actually  looked  at  him,  in  the  body, 
from  that  point,  but  will  feel  a  melancholy  satisfaction  that 
they  have  had  such  opportunity.  Mr.  Thackeray's  powers  as 
a  lecturer  was  simply  proved  by  results.  He  lectured  in  Eng- 


SHIRLEY  BROOKS  ON  THACKERAY.  17 r 

land  and  America,  and  was  rewarded  with  a  fortune.  But 
those  who  think  that  it  was  easily  earned  knew  little  of  the 
limce  labor  which  he  bestowed  upon  the  carefully-phrased  and 
eloquent  lectures  ;  and,  we  may  add,  knew  little  of  his  own 
unaffected  distaste  for  public  speaking.  But  he  had  resolved 
that  his  lectures  should  make  a  provision  for  those  who  were 
dearer  to  him  than  life  ;  and  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  give 
way  either  to  indolence  or  to  timidity.  He  elaborated  his  dis 
courses,  and  they  became  rich  by  his  workmanship  ;  he  de 
livered  them,  and  he  became  rich  by  the  popularity  they 
acquired.  Those  on  the  "  Humorists  of  the  Eighteenth  Cent 
ury,"  will  probably  be  more  acceptable  than  "  The  Four 
Georges  "  ;  but  the  lecturer  had  acquired  far  more  power  of 
utterance  and  of  effective  delivery  when  he  addressed  himself 
to  the  latter  than  he  originally  possessed  ;  and  few  who  heard 
the  chapter  of  kings  will  forget  the  telling,  clean-cut  precision 
with  which  the  innumerable  points  and  epigrams  were  brought 
out,  or  the  artistic  easiness  with  which  you  were  led,  half  care 
lessly,  up  to  a  rocket  that  the  next  moment  soared  away  with 
a  train  of  sparkles  that  set  you  staring  in  pleasant  surprise. 

"  Everybody  should  try  to  get  into  Parliament,"  said  a 
clever  man  who  kept  out  of  it.  Mr.  Thackeray  thought,  in 
1857,  that  he  would  try.  We  suppose  that  somebody  at  the 
Reform  Club  had  told  him  that  the  legitimate  expenses  would 
not  be  much,  and  he  certainly  never  meant  to  pay  any  others. 
Oxford  —  the  city  —  had  a  vacancy,  and  Mr.  Thackeray  offered 
himself  on  liberal  principles.  It  is  to  the  honor  of  Oxford  city 
that  so  many  men  were  found  to  vote  for  a  gentleman  who 
had  no  claim  but  his  literary  genius,  who  did  not  bribe,  who 
had  no  influence  to  procure  places  for  the  sons  of  voters,  who 
was  not  a  successful  orator,  and  who  had  no  past  political 
services  to  appeal  to,  except  that  with  the  very  sharpest  pen 
in  England  he  had  been  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  stab 
bing  at  all  inhumanities,  follies,  and  barbarisms.  Although 
an  able  and  well-known  man,  Mr.  Cardwell,  who  had  claims 
on  the  electors  and  had  official  position,  was  started  against 
him,  Mr.  Thackeray  was  beaten  by  a  small  majority  only  — 


1 72  WILLIAM  MAKEPEA  CE    THA  CKERA  Y. 

1085  to  IOI8.  He  took  his  defeat  as  he  took  all  the  chances 
of  life,  gallantly,  and  like  a  gentleman,  told  the  electors  that 
they  had  chosen  the  best  man,  and  when  he  lectured  next 
night  brought  out  a  shout  by  beginning,  gravely,  "  I  happened 
yesterday  to  be  in  an  ancient  city,  called  Oxford,  of  which 
some  of  you  may  have  heard."  We  could  not  regret  the  fail 
ure,  except  in  so  far  as  he  was  disappointed  ;  for  he  would  have 
obtained  some  capital  political  sketches  in  Parliament,  at  the 
expense  of  his  health,  comfort,  and  leisure.  The  nation,  we 
thought,  had  clubfuls  of  men  who  can  sit  up  all  night,  vote  for 
"  the  ballot  and  liberal  measures  generally,"  and  deliver  extra 
Parliamentary  utterances  of  more  or  less  dullness  ;  but  she 
had  nobody  to  draw  another  Becky  Sharp  or  the  Marquis  of 
Steyne.  Mentioning  which  thought  to  the  person  most  con 
cerned,  we  were  answered  with  a  merry  "  Qui  fit,  Maecenas, 
ut  nemo  —  yes,  sir"  —  the  last  word  given  with  American  ac 
cent,  often  adopted  by  him  in  no  unkind  memory  of  the  States. 
Let  us  add  that  Mr.  Cardwell,  addressing  the  electors  of  Ox 
ford,  since  the  melancholy  Christmas  Eve,  has  spoken  of  the 
departed  as  became  Mr.  Cardwell,  and  as  if  he  felt  it  an  honor 
to  have  had  such  a  man  as  antagonist. 

Mr.  Thackeray  as  editor  of  the  "  Cornhill  Magazine,"  must 
have  been  dreadfully  bored,  and  did  not  tell  us  in  those 
"  Roundabout  Papers  "  one  tenth  of  his  troubles.  He  ought 
never  to  have  given  time,  trouble,  or  anything  but  his  name  to 
a  periodical  work  ;  and  we  may  believe  that  the  proprietors 
did  all  in  their  power  to  prevent  his  being  worried  and  dis 
turbed  in  his  lawful  labors.  But  it  is  not  permitted  in  Eng 
land  to  deal  in  England  with  volunteer  contributors  to  any 
thing  as  the  Pacha  dealt  with  the  fellah  ;  and  unless  they  are 
shot  they  will  write  to  you,  send  parcels  to  you,  send  angry 
friends  to  you,  call  on  you  when  you  are  at  dinner,  abuse  you 
through  the  press,  waylay  you  in  the  street,  and  leave  word  in 
their  wills  that  their  executors  are  to  avenge  them  upon  you. 
Thackeray  had  to  undergo  a  great  deal  of  this,  and  he  had  not 
the  sternness  which  might  have  saved  him  some,  at  least,  of 
the  worry.  He  would read  applicants'  notes;  he  would  even 


SHIRLEY  BROOKS  ON  THACKERAY.  173 

correspond  with  hopeless  and  helpless  creatures  who  had  no 
right  to  touch  pen  and  ink  ;  he  would  even  —  it  was  utterly 
subversive  of  all  editorial  authority  —  send  a  chanty  bank 
note  to  a  very  poor  scribbler  who  pleaded  starvation,  and  who, 
two  months  afterwards,  wrote  him  an  abusive  letter  for  not 
inserting  the  contribution  "  on  which  he  had  paid  half  the  price 
on  account."  We  got  some  agreeable  papers  out  of  his  troubles 
in  this  way,  but  they  were  too  dearly  purchased  ;  and  we  our 
selves  were  very  glad  to  hear  that  he  was  relieved  from  editor 
ship,  though,  in  effect,  that  made  little  difference  to  the  volun 
teer  contributors,  who  wrote  that  if  he  used  his  great  influence, 
they  were  sure  their  papers  would  be  printed,  and  so  on. 

And  this  last  record  seems  to  bring  us  to  the  very  last  and 
saddest  of  all.  This  memoir,  if  it  deserve  the  name,  has  been 
but  a  jotting  down  of  details  within  the  knowledge  of  all,  of  a 
few  personal  recollections  common  to  a  host  of  friends,  and  of 
a  few  pleasant  memories  of  books  which  have  afforded  pleas 
ant  memories  to  millions.  The  writer  of  these  lines  has  made 
no  attempt  to  forestall  a  more  elaborate  or  more  worthy  record, 
which  will  probably  be  heard  of  ere  long.  It  only  remains  for 
him  to  add  that  the  last  time  he  saw  William  Thackeray  was 
on  Wednesday  the  i6th  of  December.  They  were  next  neigh 
bors  at  a  dinner  where  all  were  intimate  friends.  Thackeray 
was  in  his  usual  spirits,  which  were  never  boisterous  but 
always  cheerful,  and  he  had  pleasant  words  for  all  present. 
Especially  was  he  pretending  to  incite  one  very  old  friend  to 
give  a  party  of  an  excessively  gay  description  in  order,  as  he 
said,  that  we  might  fancy  ourselves  all  young  again.  He  had 
something  to  say  of  the  "  circumstances  "  touching  which  the 
National  Shakspeare  Committee  had  passed  a  vote  of  "  re 
gret,"  and  which  Mr.  Lucas  has  indignantly  declared  will 
cause  posterity  to  "point  with  scorn"  at  that  passage  in  the 
committee's  history.  They  did  not  ruffle  Thackeray,  however 
they  may  have  incensed  his  friends  ;  and  it  is  not  needful,  at 
least  at  present,  to  reproduce  his  smiling  judgment  on  those 
whom  it  concerned.  On  that  evening  he  enjoyed  himself 
much  in  his  own  quiet  way,  and  contributed  generally  to  the 


174  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

enjoyment  of  those  who  were  something  less  quiet ;  and  a 
question  arising  about  a  subscription  in  aid  of  a  disabled  artist, 
he  instantly  offered  to  increase,  if  necessary,  a  sum  he  had 
previously  promised.  The  writer's  very  last  recollection  of 
the  cynic,  therefore,  is  in  connection  with  an  unasked  act  of 
Christian  kindness.  On  the  following  Monday  he  attended 
the  funeral  of  a  lady,  who  was  interred  in  Kensal  Green  Cem 
etery.  On  the  Tuesday  he  came  to  his  favorite  club,  —  the 
Garrick,  —  and  asked  a  seat  at  the  table  of  two  friends,  who,  of 
course,  welcomed  him  as  all  welcomed  Thackeray.  It  will 
not  be  deemed  too  minute  a  record  by  any  of  the  hundreds 
who  personally  loved  him  to  note  where  he  sat  for  the  last 
time  in  that  club.  There  is  in  the  dining-room  on  the  first 
floor  a  nook  near  the  reading-room.  The  principal  picture 
hanging  in  that  nook,  and  fronting  you  as  you  approach  it, 
is  the  celebrated  one  from  "  The  Clandestine  Marriage,"  with 
Lord  Ogleby,  Canton,  and  Brush.  Opposite  to  that  Thack 
eray  took  his  seat  and  dined  with  his  friends.  He  was  after 
wards  in  the  smoke-room,  a  place  in  which  he  delighted.  The 
Garrick  Club  will  remove  in  a  few  months,  and  all  these  de 
tails  will  be  nothing  to  its  new  members,  but  much  to  ma-ny 
of  its  old  ones.  His  place  there  will  know  him  and  them  no 
more.  On  Wednesday  he  was  out  several  times,  and  was 
seen  in  Palace-gardens  "  reading  a  book."  Before  the  dawn 
of  Thursday  he  was  where  there  is  no  night  \  May  we  meet 
him  there  ! 

JAMES  HANNAY  ON  THACKERAY. 

By  birth  Mr.  Thackeray  belonged  to  the  upper  middle  class, 
—  a  section  of  our  curiously  divided  society  which  contains 
many  cadets  of  old  families,  and  forms  a  link  between  the 
aristocracy  and  the  general  bulk  of  the  liberal  professions. 
He  used  sometimes  to  say  that  "  it  takes  three  generations  to 
make  a  gentleman  ;  "  and  though  this  was  not  a  maxim  which 
he  would  have  applied  strictly  in  the  case  of  another  man,  he 
was  far  from  insensible  to  the  advantage  in  himself.  He  was 
descended  from  an  old  Saxon  stock  long  settled  in  Yorkshire. 
His  great-grandfather  was  Dr.  Thackeray,  of  Harrow,  who 


9  JAMES  H ANN  AY  ON  THACKERAY.  175 

went  to  Cambridge  in  1710,  an  excellent  scholar  and  clever 
man,  who  partly  educated  Sir  William  Jones,  and  whose 
epitaph  was  written  by  his  pupil  Dr.  Parr.  The  son  of  the 
Doctor  married  a  Miss  Webb,  of  the  old  English  family  to 
which  the  Brigadier  Webb,  of  Marlborough's  wars,  belonged, 
—  whose  portrait  is  drawn  with  something  of  the  geniality  of 
kinsmanship  in  "  Esmond."  This  Thackeray,  we  believe,  was 
the  first  of  the  race  to  settle  in  India  ;  where  his  son  also 
sought  his  fortunes  ;  and  where  his  grandson  the  novelist  was 
born  —  at  Calcutta  —  in  1811.  There  are  numerous  descend 
ants  of  the  scholarly  old  Headmaster  of  Harrow  scattered 
over  the  English  Church  and  in  the  Indian  Service,  and  traces 
of  the  influence  of  family  connections  are  found  all  through  the 
books  of  the  man  who  has  made  his  name  famous.  The  feudal 
feeling  of  Scott — which  in  any  case  is  Scotch  rather  than 
English  —  Thackeray  did  not  share.  Heraldry  to  him  had 
only  the  quaint  interest  and  prettiness  of  old  china.  But  it  is 
impossible  to  appreciate  either  his  philosophy,  his  style,  or 
his  literary  position,  without  remembering  that  he  was  a  well 
born,  well-bred,  and  well-educated  gentleman. 

Like  other  English  children  born  in  India,  young  Thackeray 
was  sent  home  early,  and  the  voyage  —  during  which  he  had  an 
eager  and  wondering  peep  at  the  great  Napoleon  in  his  island 
prison, — was  among  his  earliest  recollections.  He  received 
his  education  at  Charterhouse  —  the  well-known  Greyfriars  of 
his  stories, — an  ancient  and  famous  public  school.  He  some 
where  talks  of  the  "  monkish  seclusion  "  of  his  school-days, 
and  in  his  critical  and  questioning  moods  he  has  sufficiently 
proved  that  he  knew  the  weak  points  of  the  old  educational 
system.  But  he  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  showing  his  re 
spect  for  Charterhouse,  and  he  was  perfectly  aware  how  much 
he  owed  to  it.  In  after-life,  he  let  most  of  his  Greek  slip 
away  ;  but  his  acquaintance  with  the  Latin  language,  and 
especially  the  Latin  poets,  Avas  eminently  respectable,  and  ex 
ercised  a  profound  influence  over  his  genius  and  his  diction. 
The  "  Odes  of  Horace  "  he  knew  intimately  well,  and  there  are 
subtle  indications  of  the  knowledge  —  the  smell  of  Italian  vio- 


i;6  WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

lets  hidden  in  the  green  of  his  prose  —  only  to  be  truly  en 
joyed  by  Horatians.  A  quotation  from  Horace  was  one  of 
the  favorite  forms  in  which  he  used  to  embody  his  jokes.  If 
you  bored  him  with  genealogy,  he  would  begin  — • 

"  Quantum  distet  ab  Inacho," 

which  was  quite  a  sufficient  hint ;  and  when  a  low  fellow  in 
London  hanged  himself,  he  observed  that  it  was  a  "  dignus 
vindice  NODUS."  Latin  writers,  French  writers,  and  English 
eighteenth  century  men  were  the  three  sources  at  which  his 
genius  fed,  and  on  which  it  was  nourished.  • '  » 

From  Charterhouse  he  went  to  Cambridge,  which  he  left 
without  taking  a  degree  ;  and  he  entered  on  life  with  health, 
strength,  a  noble  figure,  an  excellent  genius,  and  twenty  thou 
sand  pounds,  —  the  last  of  which  blessings  was  the  first 
(owing,  it  is  said,  to  unfortunate  speculations)  to  leave  him. 
But  this  loss  was  not  complete,  till  he  had  had  the  full  benefit 
of  a  good  culture  and  a  good  experience.  He  travelled  over 
Europe,  and  resided  in  its  capitals,  while  his  mind  was  young 
and  fresh,  and  laid  in  those  stores  of  observation  to  which  we 
owe  sketches  with  which  everybody  is  familiar.  He  had  an 
interview  with  Goethe  at  Weimar,  his  description  of  which 
may  be  seen  in  the  "  Life  of  Goethe  "  by  Mr.  Lewes  ;  and  he 
studied  art  at  Rome.  If  he  had  had  his  choice,  he  would 
rather  have  been  famous  as  an  artist  than  as  a  writer  ;  but  it 
was  destined  that  he  should  paint  in  colors  which  will  never 
crack  and  never  need  restoration.  All  his  artist  experience 
did  him  just  as  much  good  in  literature  as  it  could  have  in  any 
other  way  ;  and,  in  travelling  through  Europe  to  see  pictures, 
he  learned  not  them  only,  but  men,  manners,  and  languages. 
He  read  German  ;  he  knew  French  well  and  spoke  it  ele 
gantly  ;  and  in  market-places,  salons,  hotels,  museums,  stu 
dios,  the  sketch-book  of  his  mind  was  always  filling  itself. 
Paris  was  one  of  his  most  important  head-quarters  in  every 
way,  and  to  his  stay  there  the  world  owes  perhaps  the  best  of 
his  poems  —  the  "  Chronicle  of  the  Drum."  His  poetic  vein 
was  curiously  original.  He  was  not  essentially  poetical,  as 


JAMES  H ANN  AY  ON  THACKERAY.  1 77 

Tennyson,  for  instance,  is.  Poetry  was  not  the  predominant 
mood  of  his  mind,  or  the  intellectual  law  by  which  the 
objects  of  his  thought  and  observation  were  arranged  and 
classified.  But  inside  his  fine  sagacious  common-sense  un 
derstanding,  there  was,  so  to  speak,  a  pool  of  poetry,  —  like 
the  impluvium  in  the  hall  of  a  Roman  house,  which  gave 
an  air  of  coolness  and  freshness  and  nature  to  the  solid 
marble  columns  and  tessellated  floor.  The  highest  prod 
ucts  of  this  part  of  his  mind  were  the  "  Chronicle  "  above 
mentioned,  the  "  Bouillebaisse,"  the  lines  on  Charles  Buller's 
death  at  the  end  of  one  of  his  "  Christmas  Books,"  and  the 
"  Ho,  pretty  page  with  dimpled  chin  "  of  another  of  them. 
A  song  or  two  in  his  novels,  and  some  passages  in  which 
rural  scenery  is  quietly  and  casually  described,  might  also  be 
specified.  But  all  this  is  chiefly  valuable  as  showing  that 
his  nature  was  complete,  and  that  there  wanted  not  in  his 
genius  that  softer  and  more  sensitive  side  natural  to  one 
whose  observation  was  so  subtle  and  his  heart  so  kind.  He 
was  essentially  rather  moralist  and  humorist, — thinker  and 
wit,  —  than  poet ;  and  he  was  too  manly  to  overwork  his 
poetic  vein  as  a  man  may  legitimately  work  his  mere  under 
standing.  This  honorable  self-restraint,  this  decent  reticence, 
so  natural  to  English  gentlemen,  was  by  some  writers  of  the 
Gushing  School  mistaken  for  hardness.  The  Gusher  is  al 
ways  for  plenty  of  sentimentalism  ;  —  for  showing  his  heart  on 
his  sleeve,  after  having  previously  inflated  the  vessels  of  that 
organ  with  wind  to  make  it  look  bigger  ;  and  he  sheds  "  blind 
ing  tears," —  as  the  lower  animals  perform  all  the  properly 
secret  operations  of  nature, — in  public.  This  kind  of  thing 
was  not  in  Thackeray's  way,  and  wide  as  his  sympathies  were, 
he  despised  it.  "  I  shall  not  try  to  describe  her  grief,"  he 
makes  Sam  Titmarsh  say  in  the  "  Hoggarty  Diamond,  "  for 
such  things  are  sacred  and  secret  ;  and  a  man  has  no  business 
to  place  them  on  record  for  all  the  world  to  read."  Few  of  his 
sentences  are  more  characteristic. 

Thackeray  was  still  young  and  opulent  when  he  began  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  London  men  of  letters.     Certain  it 


1/8  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

is,  that  he  lent  —  or  in  plainer  English,  gave  —  five  hundred 
pounds  to  poor  old  Maginn,  when  he  was  beaten  in  the  battle 
of  life,  and  like  other  beaten  soldiers  made  a  prisoner  —  in 
the  Fleet.  With  the  generation  going  out,  —  that  of  Lamb 
and  Coleridge,  —  he  had,  we  believe,  no  personal  acquaint 
ance.  Sydney  Smith  he  met  at  a  later  time  ;  and  he  remem 
bered  with  satisfaction  that  something  which  he  wrote  about 
Hood  gave  pleasure  to  that  delicate  humorist  and  poet  in  his 
last  days.  But  his  first  friends  were  the  Fraserians,  of  whom 
Father  Prout,  —  always  his  intimate,  —  and  Carlyle,  —  always 
one  of  his  most  appreciating  friends,  —  survive.  From  rem 
iniscences  of  the  wilder  lights  in  the  "  Fraser  "  constellation 
were  drawn  the  pictures  of  the  queer  fellows  connected  with 
literature  in  "  Pendennis,"  —  Captain  Shandon,  —  the  fero 
cious  Bludyer,  —  stout  old  Tom  Serjeant,  —  and  so  forth. 
Magazines  in  those  days  were  more  brilliant  than  they  are 
now,  when  they  are  haunted  by  the  fear  of  shocking  the  Fogy 
element  in  their  circulation  ;  and  the  effect  of  their  greater 
freedom  is  seen  in  the  buoyant,  riant,  and  unrestrained  com 
edy  of  Thackeray's  own  earlier  "  Fraser  "  articles.  "  I  sup 
pose  we  all  begin  by  being  too  savage,"  is  the  phrase  of  a 
letter  which  he  wrote  in  1849;  "  I know  one  who  did"  He 
was  alluding  here  to  the  "  Yellowplush  Papers  "  in  particular, 
where  living  men  were  very  freely  handled.  This  old,  wild 
satiric  spirit  it  was  which  made  him  interrupt  even  the  early 
chapters  of  "  Vanity  Fair,"  by  introducing  a  parody,  which  he 
could  not  resist,  of  some  contemporary  novelists.  In  the  last 
fifteen  years  of  his  life  he  wrote  under  greater  restraint,  and 
with  a  sense  of  his  graver  responsibilities  as  one  of  the  lead 
ing  men  of  letters  of  the  country.  But  his  satire  was  never  at 
any  time  malignant  ;  and  the  fine  freedom  of  his  early  writing 
developed  his  genius  as  the  scenes  cf  the  arena  developed 
the  athlete.  He  was  writing  for  twelve  or  thirteen  years,  as  a 
professional  author,  before  "  Vanity  Fair "  made  him  really 
known  to  the  world  at  large.  The  best  works  of  that  epoch 
will  be  found  in  the  "  Miscellanies,"  published  by  Bradbury  & 
Evans  in  1857.  But  there  is  much  of  his  writing  buried  in 


JAMES  H ANN  AY  ON  THACKERAY.  179 

periodicals,  some  of  which  have  been  long  dead.  He  was 
connected  with  at  least  one  failure,  the  "  Parthenon,"  —  an 
ill-omened  name  borne  after  a  long  interval  by  another  jour 
nal  quite  recently  defunct.  He  certainly  contributed  some 
things  to  the  "  Times,"  during  Barnes's  editorship, — :  an  article 
on  Fielding  amongst  them  ;  though  not,  we  should  think,  lead 
ing  articles,  —  a  kind  of  work  for  which  he  had  no  relish,  and 
for  which  he  believed  himself  to  have  no  turn.  "Eraser"  was 
the  organ  with  which  he  was  most  successfully  connected  till 
the  days  of  his  "  Punch  "  engagement.  It  was  indeed  as  a 
magazinist  that  he  educated  himself  for  a  novelist.  With  a 
playful  reference  to  his  early  and  never-forgotten  ambition  to 
be  an  artist,  he  called  himself  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  and 
published  under  that  name,  not  only  articles  but  books.  The 
"  Paris  Sketchbook,"  the  "  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon  " 
(comprising  the  "  Chronicle  of  a  Drum  "),  the  "  Fatal  Boots," 
the  "  Hoggarty  Diamond,"  the  "  Irish  Sketchbook,"  the 
"Journey  from  Cornhill  to  Grand  Cairo,"  sufficiently  attest 
his  activity  during  the  years  which  preceded  the  great  epoch 
of  "  Vanity  Fair."  These  books  are  full  of  sense,  and  wit, 
and  humor,  and  it  seems  extraordinary  that  their  author 
should  have  been  within  a  year  or  two  of  forty  before  he  was 
really  famous.  Their  very  truthfulness,  however, — the  easy 
quiet  of  their  best  philosophy,  —  the  slyness  of  their  choicest 
irony,  —  the  gentlemanly  taste  of  their  heartiest  abandon,  — 
all  this  was  caviare  to  the  vulgar,  including  the  vulgar  of  the 
critical  press.  The  offer  of  "  Vanity  Fair  "  was  declined  by 
one  publisher ;  and  good  judges  said  that  a  necessary  im 
pulse  was  given  to  its  appreciation,  by  an  article  during  its 
progress,  in  the  "  Edinburgh  Review."  It  was  still  the  fashion, 
as  far  as  it  was  fashionable  to  speak  of  Thackeray  at  all,  to 
treat  him  as  a  satirist.  An  admirable  satirist  he  had,  indeed, 
just  proved  himself  in  the  "Snob  Papers"  —  a  series  that 
stands  high  above  anything  ever  given  to  the  world  in 
"Punch,"  excepting  Hood's  "Song  of  the  Shirt."  Nor 
was  Thackeray  ever  ashamed  of  the  title  of  satirist,  know 
ing  by  what  great  men  it  had  been  borne  before  him,  and 


ISO  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

how  much  honest  work  there  was  in  the  world  for  satire  to 
do.  But  that  he  was  a  satirist  only,  he  had  proved,  long  be 
fore  the  "  Snob  Papers,"  to  be  absurd.  Anybody  who  can 
read,  for  instance,  the  story  of  Sam  Titmarsh's  sufferings  and 
the  loss  of  his  child,  after  the  Diddlesex  catastrophe,  in  the 
"  Hoggarty  Diamond,"  without  seeing  that  the  writer's  tender 
ness  and  power  of  representing  tenderness  were  exquisitely 
deep  and  exquisitely  real,  may  conclude  himself  disqualified 
by  nature  for  having  an  opinion  on  literary  matters.  There 
are  few  whose  judgment  on  such  things  is  much  worth,  — but 
his  is  certainly  worth  nothing. 

When  Thackeray  wrote  "  Vanity  Fair,"  in  1846,  '7,  '8,  he 
was  living  in  Young  Street,  Kensington,  —  a  street  on  your 
left  hand,  before  you  come  to  the  church  ;  and  here,  in  1848, 
the  author  of  this  sketch  had  first  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him, 
of  being  received  at  his  table,  and  of  knowing  how  essentially 
a  kind,  humane,  and  perfectly  honest  man  he  was.  "Vanity 
Fair  "  was  then  unfinished,  but  its  success  was  made,  and  he 
spoke  frankly  and  genially  of  his  work,  and  his  career.  "  Van 
ity  Fair  "  always,  we  think,  ranked  in  his  own  mind  as  best  in 
story  of  his  greater  books  ;  and  he  once  pointed  out  to  us  the 
very  house  in  Russell  Square  where  his  imaginary  Sedleys 
lived,  —  a  curious  proof  of  the  reality  his  creations  had  for 
his  mind.  The  man  and  the  books  were  equally  real  and  true  ; 
and  it  was  natural  that  he  should  speak  without  hesitation  of 
his  books,  if  you  wished  it  ;  though  as  a  man  of  the  world 
and  a  polished  gentleman  who  knew  the  world  thoroughly,  lit 
erature  to  him  only  toolkits  turn  among  other  topics.  From 
this  point  of  view,  his  relation  to  it  was  a  good  deal  like  that  of 
Scott.  According  to  Lockhart,  people  were  wrong  in  saying 
that  Sir  Walter  declined  at  all  markedly  to  talk  about  Litera 
ture,  and  yet  his  main  interest  was  in  active  life.  Just  so, 
Thackeray  was  not  bookish,  and  yet  turned  readily  to  the  sub 
ject  of  books  if  invited.  His  reading  was  undoubtedly  large 
in  Memoirs,  Modern  History,  Biography,  Poetry,  Essays,  and 
Fiction  —  and,  taken  in  conjunction  with  his  scholarship, 
probably  placed  him,  as  a  man  of  letters,  above  any  other 


JAMES  HANNA  Y   ON  THA  CKERA  Y.  1 8 1 

novelist  except  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton.  Here  is  a  characteristic 
fragment  from  one  of  his  letters,  written  in  August  1854,  and 
now  before  us  :  "I  hate  Juvenal,"  he  says  ;  "  I  mean  I  think 
him  a  truculent  brute,  and  I  love  Horace  better  than  you  do, 
and  rate  Churchill  much  lower  ;  and  as  for  Swift,  you  haven't 
made  me  alter  my  opinion.  I  admire,  or  rather  admit,  his 
power  as  much  as  you  do  ;  but  I  don't  admire  that  kind  of 
power  so  much  as  I  did  fifteen  years  ago,  or  twenty  shall  we 
say.  Love  is  a  higher  intellectual  exercise  than  Hatred  :  and 
when  you  get  one  or  two  more  of  those  young  ones  you  write  so 
pleasantly  about,  you  '11  come  over  to  the  side  of  the  kind  wags, 
I  think,  rather  than  the  cruel  ones."  Passages  like  this,  — 
which  men  who  knew  him  will  not  need  to  have  quoted  to 
them,  —  have  a  double  value  for  the  world  at  large.  They  not 
only  show  a  familiar  command  of  writers  whom  it  is  by  no 
means  easy  to  know  well,  —  but  they  show  what  the  real  phi 
losophy  was  of  a  man  whom  the  envious  represented  to  the 
ignorant  as  a  cynic  and  a  scoffer.  Why,  his  favorite  authors 
were  just  those  whose  influence  he  thought  had  been  bene 
ficial  to  the  cause  of  virtue  and  charity.  "  I  take  off  my  hat  to 
Joseph  Addison,"  he  would  say,  after  an  energetic  testimony 
to  his  good  effect  on  English  life.  He  was,  in  fact,  even 
greater  as  a  moralist  than  as  a  mere  describer  of  manners  ; 
and  his  very  hatred  of  quackery  and  meanness  was  proved  to 
be  real  by  his  simplicity,  humanity,  and  kindliness  of  charac 
ter.  In  private,  this  great  satirist,  whose  aspect  in  a  crowd 
was  often  one  of  austere  politeness  and  reserve,  unbent  into  a 
familiar  naivete  which  somehow  one  seldom  finds  in  the  dem 
onstratively  genial.  And  this  was  the  more  charming  and 
precious  that  it  rested  on  a  basis  of  severe  and  profound  re 
flection,  before  the  glance  of  which  all  that  was  dark  and  seri 
ous  in  man's  life  and  prospects  lay  open.  The  gravity  of  that 
white  head,  with  its  noble  brow,  and  thoughtful  face  full  of 
feeling  and  meaning,  enhanced  the  piquancy  of  his  playful 
ness,  and  of  the  little  personal  revelations  which  came  with 
such  a  grace  from  the  depths  of  his  kindly  nature.  When  we 
congratulated  him,  many  years  ago,  on  the  touch  in  "  Vanity 


1 82  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

Fair "  in  which  Becky  "  admires "  her  husband  when  he  is 
giving  Lord  Steyne  the  chastisement  which  ruins  her  for  life, 
"  Well,"  he  said,  —  "  when  I  wrote  the  sentence,  I  slapped  my 
fist  on  the  table,  and  said  '  that  is  a  touch  of  genius  ! ' ';  The 
incident  is  a  trifle,  but  it  will  reveal,  we  suspect,  an  element  of 
fervor,  as  well  as  a  heartiness  of  frankness  in  recording  the  fer 
vor,  both  equally  at  variance  with  the  vulgar  conception  of 
him.  This  frankness  and  bonhommie  made  him  delightful  in 
a  tete-a-tete,  and  gave  a  pleasant  human  flavor  to  talk  full  of 
sense,  and  wisdom,  and  experience,  and  lighted  up  by  the 
gayety  of  the  true  London  man  of  the  world.  Though  he  said 
witty  things,  now  and  then,  he  was  not  a  wit  in  the  sense  in 
which  Jerrold  was,  and  he  complained,  sometimes,  that  his 
best  things  occurred  to  him  after  the  occasion  had  gone  by  ! 
He  shone  most,  —  as  in  his  books,  —  in  little  subtle  remarks 
on  life,  and  little  descriptive  sketches  suggested  by  the  talk. 
We  remember  in  particular,  one  evening,  after  a  dinner  party 
at  his  house,  a  fancy  picture  he  drew  of  Shakespeare  during  his 
last  years  at  Stratford,  sitting  out  in  the  summer  afternoon 
watching  the  people,  which  all  who  heard  it,  brief  as  it  .was, 
thought  equal  to  the  best  things  in  his  Lectures.  But  it  was 
not  for  this  sort  of  talent,  —  rarely  exerted  by  him,  —  that 
people  admired  his  conversation.  They  admired,  above  all, 
the  broad  sagacity,  sharp  insight,  large  and  tolerant  liberality, 
which  marked  him  as  one  who  was  a  sage  as  well  as  a  story 
teller,  and  whose  stories  were  valuable  because  he  was  a  sage. 
Another  point  of  likeness  to  him  in  Scott  was  that  he  never 
overvalued  story-telling,  or  forgot  that  there  were  nobler 
things  in  Literature  than  the  purest  creations  of  which  the  ob 
ject  was  amusement.  "  I  would  give  half  my  fame,"  wrote 
Scott,  "  if  by  so  doing  I  could  place  the  other  half  on  a  solid 
basis  of  science  and  learning."  "  Now  is  the  time,"  wrote 
Thackeray,  to  a  young  friend  in  1849,  "  to  lay  in  stock.  I 
wish  I  had  had  five  years'  reading  before  I  took  to  our  trade." 
How  heartily  we  have  heard  him  praise  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton  for 
the  good  example  he  set  by  being  "  thoroughly  literate  !  "  We 
are  not  going  to  trench  here  on  any  such  ground  as  Thacke- 


JAMES  HANNAY  ON  THACKERAY.  183 

ray's  judgments  about  his  contemporaries.  But  we  may  notice 
an  excellent  point  bearing  on  these.  If  he  heard  a  young  fel 
low  expressing  great  admiration  for  one  of  them  he  encouraged 
him  in  it.  When  somebody  was  mentioned  as  worshipping  an 
eminent  man  just  dead,  —  "I  am  glad,"  said  Thackeray,  "  that 
he  worships  anybody." 

After  "  Vanity  Fair,"  Thackeray's  fame  steadily  increased. 
;'  Pendennis  "  appeared  during  1849  an(^  I^5°?  anc^  though  it 
was  generally  considered  inferior  in  mere  plot  to  its  prede 
cessor,  no  inferiority  was  perceived  in  the  essential  qualities 
of  character,  thought,  humor,  and  style.  The  announcement 
in  the  summer  of  1851  that  he  was  about  to  lecture  on  the 
English  Humorists  gave  a  thrill  of  pleasure  to  intellectual 
London  ;  and  when  he  rose  in  Willis's  Rooms  to  commence 
the  course  with  Swift,  all  that  was  most  brilliant  in  the  Capital 
was  assembled  to  hear  him.  Amidst  a  throng  of  nobles,  and 
beauties,  and  men  of  fashion,  were  Carlyle,  and  Macaulay,  — 
Hallam  with  his  venerable  head,  —  and  Charlotte  Bronte, 
whose  own  fame  was  just  at  its  height,  and  who  saw  in  the 
lecturer  her  ideal  of  an  elevated  and  high-minded  master  of 
literary  art.  The  lectures  were  thoroughly  appreciated.  Every 
body  was  delighted  to  see  the  great  masters  of  English  of  a 
past  age  brought  to  life  again  in  their  habits  as  they  lived,  and 
endowed  with  the  warm  human  reality  of  the  lecturer's  Dob 
bins,  and  Warringtons,  and  Pendennises.  It  was  this  power, 
and  not  the  literary  criticism,  which  constituted  the  value  of 
Thackeray's  lectures,  and  will  secure  their  place  in  the  bio 
graphical  literature  of  the  country. 

Towards  the  close  of  1852,  "Esmond"  appeared,  and 
Thackeray  sailed  for  America.1  "Esmond"  constituted  a 
new  epoch  in  his  career.  By  this  time  his  celebrity,  and  the 
impression  made  by  his  distinct  and  peculiar  genius,  —  so 
different  from  that  of  the  common  sentimental  schools,  —  had 
provoked  a  certain  amount  of  reaction.  Cads  who  disliked 
him  as  a  gentleman,  —  Mechanics'  Institute  men  who  dis- 

1  He  recalled  the  present  writer  from  a  tour  in  Scotland  in  October,  and  placed 
the  MS.  of  the  Humorists  in  his  hands  to  edit  and  annotate  during  his  absence. 


1 84          WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

liked  him  as  a  scholar,  —  Radicals  who  knew  that  he  asso 
ciated  with  the  aristocracy,  —  and  the  numerous  weaklings  to 
whom  his  severe  truth  and  perfect  honesty  of  art  seemed 
horrible  after  the  riotous  animal  spirits,  jolly  caricature,  and 
lachrymose  softness  of  the  style  which  he  was  putting  out  of 
fashion,  —  this  crew,  we  say,  was  by  no  means  satisfied  with 
the  undoubted  fact  that  Thackeray  was  becoming  the  favorite 
writer  of  the  cultivated  classes.  They  accordingly  began  to 
call  his  honesty  cynicism,  and  his  accuracy  reporting.  They 
forgot  that  tears  are  pure  in  proportion  to  the  depth  from 
which  they  come,  and  not  to  the  quantity  in  which  they  flow, 
and  that  the  tenderness  of  a  writer  is  to  be  estimated  by  the 
quality  of  his  pathos.  They  also  forgot  that  as  what  they 
called  hardness  was  mere  fidelity  to  truth,  so  what  they  called 
stenographic  detail  was  mere  finish  of  art.  The  richer  imag 
inativeness  of  "  Esmond,"  and  the  freer  play  of  feeling  in 
which  the  author  allowed  himself  to  indulge  when  dealing  with 
a  past  age,  came  in  good  time  to  rebuke  cavillers,  and  prove 
that  Thackeray's  mind  w  TS  rich  as  well  as  wide.  "  Esmond," 
we  take  it,  is  the  favorite  novel  of  his  choicest  admirers.  He 
takes  certain  liberties  with  history  in  it.  For  instance,  the 
Duke  of  Hamilton,  whom  he  represents  as  about  to  marry 
Beatrix  when  he  is  cut  off  in  a  duel,  left  a  widow,  spoken  of 
by  Swift  in  the  "Journal  to  Stella."  But  as  Scott  makes 
Leicester  quote  the  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  "  in  "  Kenil- 
worth,"  when  Shakespeare  was  about  twelve  or  thirteen  years 
of  age,  this  may  be  excused. 

It  is  a  pity  that  Thackeray  did  not  write  expressly  on 
America,  for  we  think  that  he  would  have  written  the  most 
impartial  English  book  to  which  that  country  has  yet  given 
rise.  When  he  returned  from  this  first  visit,  he  was  a  good 
deal  away  from  town.  "  Since  my  return  from  America,"  he 
writes  in  August  1854,  "  I  have  hardly  been  in  London  at  all, 
and  when  here,  in  such  a  skurry  of  business  and  pleasure  as 
never  to  call  a  day  my  own  scarcely."  The  passage  is  sig 
nificant.  Few  lives  were  more  engrossed  than  his,  discharg 
ing,  as  he  did,  at  once  the  duties  of  a  man  of  letters  and  a 


JAMES  H ANN  AY  ON  THACKERAY.  185 

man  of  fashion.  He  dined  out  a  great  deal  during  the  season. 
He  went  to  the  theatres.  He  belonged  to  three  clubs  —  the 
Athenaeum,  Reform,  and  Garrick  —  to  say  nothing  of  minor 
associations  for  the  promotion  of  good  fellowship.  With  less 
of  this  wear  and  tear,  we  should  have  had  more  work  from 
him,  —  should  have  had,  perhaps,  the  History  which  long 
dwelt  in  his  imagination  as  one  of  the  creations  of  the  future. 
As  it  is,  he  achieved  a  great  deal  during  the  last  eight  or  ten 
years  of  his  life.  Two  such  elaborate  novels  as  the  "  New- 
comes  "  and  "  Virginians,"  a  second  trip  to  America,  and  a 
ramble  over  Great  Britain,  with  a  new  set  of  Lectures  on  the 
"  Four  Georges,"  —  not  to  mention  a  contested  election,  and 
what  he  did  for  the  "  Cornhill,"  established  on  the  strength  of 
his  name,  and  for  a  time  directly  conducted  by  him,  —  these 
were  great  doings  for  a  man  who,  though  naturally  robust,  was 
plagued  and  menaced  by  more  than  one  vexatious  disorder  of 
long  continuance.  And  he  did  them  greatly, — going  into  the 
world  gayly  and  busily  to  the  last,  and  always  rinding  time  for 
such  holy  little  offices  of  personal  kindness  and  charity  as 
gave  him  —  we  believe  and  know  —  more  real  pleasure  than 
all  his  large  share  of  the  world's  applause.  He  was  much 
gratified  by  the  success  of  the  "  Four  Georges "  (a  series 
which  superseded  an  earlier  scheme  for  as  many  discourses 
on  "  Men  of  the  World  ")  in  Scotland.  "  I  have  had  three  per 
cent,  of  the  whole  population  here,"  he  wrote  from  Edinburgh, 
in  November,  1856.  "  If  I  could  but  get  three  per  cent,  of 
London ! "  He  thoroughly  appreciated  the  attention  and 
hospitality  which  he  met  with  during  these  lecturing  tours. 
And  if,  as  would  sometimes  happen,  a  local  notability's  adora 
tion  became  obtrusive,  or  such  a  person  thrust  his  obsequious 
veneration  upon  him  beyond  the  limits  of  the  becoming,  his 
forbearance  was  all  the  more  respectable  on  account  of  his 
sensitiveness. 

Latterly  he  had  built  himself  a  handsome  house  in  Kensing 
ton,  to  which  he  moved  from  Onslow  Square,  Brompton,  —  his 
residence  after  leaving  the  Young  Street  in  which  he  wrote 
"  Vanity  Fair."  It  was  a  dwelling  worthy  of  one  who  really 


1 86  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

represented  literature  in  the  great  world,  and  who,  planting 
himself  on  his  books,  yet  sustained  the  character  of  his  profes 
sion  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  gentleman.  A  friend  who  called 
on  him  there  from  Edinburgh,  in  the  summer  of  1862,  knowing 
of  old  his  love  of  the  Venusian,  playfully  reminded  him  what 
Horace  says  of  those  who,  regardless  of  their  sepulchre,  em 
ploy  themselves  in  building  houses  :  — 

"  Sepulchri 
Immemor,  struis  domos." 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  I  am  memor  sepulchri,  for  this  house  will 
always  let  for  so  many  hundreds  (mentioning  the  sum)  a  year." 
How  distant,  then,  seemed  the  event  which  has  just  happened, 
and  with  which  the  mind  obstinately  refuses  to  familiarize 
itself,  though  it  stares  at  one  from  a  thousand  broadsheets  ! 
Well,  indeed,  might  his  passing-bell  make  itself  heard  through 
all  the  myriad  joy-bells  of  the  English  Christmas  !  It  is  long 
since  England  has  lost  such  a  son  ;  it  will  be  long  before  she 
has  such  another  to  lose.  He  was  indeed  emphatically 
English,  —  English  as  distinct  from  Scotch, — no  less  than 
English  as  distinct  from  Continental,  —  a  different  type  of 
great  man  from  Scott,  and  a  different  type  of  great  man  from 
Balzac.  The  highest  purely  English  novelist  since  Fielding, 
he  combined  Acldison's  love  of  virtue  with  Johnson's  hatred  of 
cant,  —  Horace  Walpole's  lynx-like  eye  for  the  mean  and  the 
ridiculous,  with  the  gentleness  and  wide  charity  for  mankind 
as  a  whole,  of  Goldsmith.  Non  omnis  mortuus  est.  He  will 
be  remembered  in  his  due  succession  with  these  men  for  ages 
to  come,  as  long  as  the  hymn  of  praise  rises  in  the  old  Abbey 
of  Westminster,1  and  wherever  the  English  tongue  is  native 
to  men,  from  the  banks  of  the  Ganges  to  those  of  the  Missis 
sippi.2  This  humble  tribute  to  his  illustrious  and  beloved 
memory  comes  from  one  whom  he  loaded  with  benefits,  and 
to  whom  it  will  always  throw  something  of  sadness  over  the 
great  city  where  he  first  knew  him,  that  it  contains  his  too 
early  grave. 

1  "  Dum  Capitolium 
Scandet  cum  tacita  virgine  Pontifex." 
2  "  Dicar  qua  violens  obstrepit  Aufidus,"  &c. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  l8/ 

IN  MEMORIAM. 

IT  has  been  desired  by  some  of  the  personal  friends  of  the 
great  writer  who  established  the  "  Cornhill  Magazine,"  that  its 
brief  record  of  his  having  been  stricken  from  among  men 
should  be  written  by  the  old  comrade  and  brother  in  arms 
who  pens  these  lines,  and  of  whom  he  often  wrote  himself, 
and  always  with  the  warmest  generosity. 

I  saw  him  first,  nearly  twenty-eight  years  ago,  when  he  pro 
posed  to  become  the  illustrator  of  my  earliest  book.  I  saw 
him  last,  shortly  before  Christmas,  at  the  Athenaeum  Club, 
when  he  told  me  that  he  had  been  in  bed  three  days  —  that, 
after  these  attacks,  he  was  troubled  with  cold  shiverings, 
"  which  quite  took  the  power  of  work  out  of  him  "  —  and  that 
he  had  it  in  his  mind  to  try  a  new  remedy  which  he  laughingly 
described.  He  was  very  cheerful,  and  looked  very  bright.  In 
the  night  of  that  day  week  he  died. 

The  long  interval  between  those  two  periods  is  marked  in 
my  remembrance  of  him  by  many  occasions  when  he  was  su 
premely  humorous,  when  he  was  irresistibly  extravagant,  when 
he  was  softened  and  serious,  when  he  was  charming  with 
children.  But  by  none  do  I  recall  him  more  tenderly  than  by 
two  or  three  that  start  out  of  the  crowd,  when  he  unexpectedly 
presented  himself  in  my  room,  announcing  how  that  some 
passage  in  a  certain  book  had  made  him  cry  yesterday,  and 
how  that  he  had  come  to  dinner,  "  because  he  could  n't  help 
it,"  and  must  talk  such  passage  over.  No  one  can  ever  have 
seen  him  more  genial,  natural,  cordial,  fresh,  and  honestly 
impulsive,  than  I  have  seen  him  at  those  times.  No  one  can 
be  surer  than  I,  of  the  greatness  and  goodness  of  the  heart 
that  then  disclosed  itself. 

We  had  our  differences  of  opinion.  I  thought  that  he  too 
much  feigned  a  want  of  earnestness,  and  that  he  made  a  pre 
tense  of  undervaluing  his  art,  which  was  not  good  for  the  art 
that  he  held  in  trust.  But  when  we  fell  upon  these  topics,  it 
was  never  very  gravely,  and  I  have  a  lively  image  of  him  in 
my  mind,  twisting  both  his  hands  in  his  hair,  and  stamping 
about,  laughing,  to  make  an  end  of  the  discussion. 

When  we  were  associated  in  remembrance  of  the  late  Mr. 


1 88  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 

Douglas  Jerrold,  he  delivered  a  public  lecture  in  London,  in 
the  course  of  which  he  read  his  very  best  contribution  to 
"  Punch,"  describing  the  grown-up  cares  of  a  poor  family  of 
young  children.  No  one  hearing  him  could  have  doubted  his 
natural  gentleness,  or  his  thoroughly  unaffected  manly  sym 
pathy  with  the  weak  and  lowly.  He  read  the  paper  most 
pathetically,  and  with  a  simplicity  of  tenderness  that  certainly 
moved  one  of  his  audience  to  tears.  This  was  presently 
after  his  standing  for  Oxford,  from  which  place  he  had  dis 
patched  his  agent  to  me,  with  a  droll  note  (to  which  he  after 
ward  added  a  verbal  postscript),  urging  me  to  "  come  down 
and  make  a  speech,  and  tell  them  who  he  was,  for  he  doubted 
whether  more  than  two  of  the  electors  had  ever  heard  of  him, 
and  he  thought  there  might  be  as  many  as  six  or  eight  who 
had  heard  of  me."  He  introduced  the  lecture  just  mentioned, 
with  a  reference  to  his  late  electioneering  failure,  which  was 
full  of  good  sense,  good  spirits,  and  good  humor. 

He  had  a  particular  delight  in  boys,  and  an  excellent  way 
with  them.  I  remember  his  once  asking  me  with  fantastic 
gravity,  when  he  had  been  to  Eton  where  my  eldest  son  then 
was,  whether  I  felt  as  he  did  in  regard  of  never  seeing  a  boy 
without  wanting  instantly  to  give  him  a  sovereign  ?  I  thought 
of  this  when  I  looked  down  into  his  grave,  after  he  was  laid 
there,  for  I  looked  down  into  it  over  the  shoulder  of  a  boy  to 
whom  he  had  been  kind. 

These  are  slight  remembrances  ;  but  it  is  to  little  familiar 
things  suggestive  of  the  voice,  look,  manner,  never,  never 
more  to  be  encountered  on  this  earth,  that  the  mind  first  turns 
in  a  bereavement.  And  greater  things  that  are  known  of  him, 
in  the  way  of  his  warm  affections,  his  quiet  endurance,  his 
unselfish  thoughtfulness  for  others,  and  his  munificent  hand, 
may  not  be  told. 

If,  in  the  reckless  vivacity  of  his  youth,  his  satirical  pen  had 
ever  gone  astray  or  done  amiss,  he  had  caused  it  to  prefer  its 
own  petition  for  forgiveness,  long  before  :  — 

I  've  writ  the  foolish  fancy  of  his  brain  ; 

The  aimless  jest  that,  striking,  hath  caused  pair* , 

The  idle  word  that  he'd  wish  back  again. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  \  89 

In  no  pages  should  I  take  it  upon  myself  at  this  time  to  dis 
course  of  his  books,  of  his  refined  knowledge  of  character, 
of  his  subtle  acquaintance  with  the  weaknesses  of  human  nat 
ure,  of  his  delightful  playfulness  as  an  essayist,  of  his  quaint 
and  touching  ballads,  of  his  mastery  over  the  English  language. 
Least  of  all,  in  these  pages,  enriched  by  his  brilliant  qualities 
from  the  first  of  the  series,  and  beforehand  accepted  by  the 
Public  through  the  strength  of  his  great  name. 

But,  on  the  table  before  me,  there  lies  all  that  he  had  writ 
ten  of  his  latest  and  last  story.  That  it  would  be  very  sad  to 
any  one  —  that  it  is  inexpressibly  so  to  a  writer  —  in  its  evi 
dences  of  matured  designs  never  to  be  accomplished,  of  in 
tentions  begun  to  be  executed  and  destined  never  to  be  com 
pleted,  of  careful  preparation  for  long  roads  of  thought  that  he 
was  never  to  traverse,  and  for  shining  goals  that  he  was  never 
to  reach,  will  be  readily  believed.  The  pain,  however,  that  I 
have  felt  in  perusing  it,  has  not  been  deeper  than  the  convic 
tion  that  he  was  in  the  healthiest  vigor  of  his  powers  when  he 
wrought  on  this  last  labor.  In  respect  of  earnest  feeling,  far- 
seeing  purpose,  character,  incident,  and  a  certain  loving  pict- 
uresqueness  blending  the  whole,  I  believe  it  to  be  much  the 
best  of  all  his  works.  That  he  fully  meant  it  to  be  so,  that  he 
had  become  strongly  attached  to  it,  and  that  he  bestowed 
great  pains  upon  it,  I  trace  in  almost  every  page.  It  contains 
one  picture  which  must  have  cost  him  extreme  distress,  and 
which  is  a  master-piece.  There  are  two  children  in  it,  touched 
with  a  hand  as  loving  and  tender  as  ever  a  father  caressed  his 
little  child  with.  There  is  some  young  love,  as  pure  and  in 
nocent  and  pretty  as  the  truth.  And  it  is  very  remarkable 
that,  by  reason  of  the  singular  construction  of  the  story,  more 
than  one  main  incident  usually  belonging  to  the  end  of  such  a 
fiction  is  anticipated  in  the  beginning,  and  thus  there  is  an 
approach  to  completeness  in  the  fragment,  as  to  the  satisfac 
tion  of  the  reader's  mind  concerning  the  most  interesting  per 
sons,  which  could  hardly  have  been  better  attained  if  the 
writer's  breaking-off  had  been  foreseen. 

The  last  line  he  wrote,  and  the  last  proof  he  corrected,  are 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

among  these  papers  through  which  I  have  so  sorrowfully 
made  my  way.  The  condition  of  the  little  pages  of  manuscript 
where  Death  stopped  his  hand,  shows  that  he  had  carried 
them  about,  and  often  taken  them  out  of  his  pocket  here  and 
there,  for  patient  revision  and  interlineation.  The  last  words 
he  corrected  in  print,  were,  "  And  my  heart  throbbed  with  an 
exquisite  bliss."  God  grant  that  on  that  Christmas  Eve  when 
he  laid  his  head  back  on  his  pillow  and  threw  up  his  arms  as 
he  had  been  wont  to  do  when  very  weary,  some  consciousness 
of  duty  done  and  Christian  hope  throughout  life  humbly  cher 
ished,  may  have  caused  his  own  heart  so  to  throb,  when  he 
passed  away  to  his  Redeemer's  rest  ! 

He  was  found  peacefully  lying  as  above  described,  com 
posed,  undisturbed,  and  to  all  appearance  asleep,  on  the 
twenty-fourth  of  December,  1863.  He  was  only  in  his  fifty- 
third  year  ;  so  young  a  man,  that  the  mother  who  blessed  him 
in  his  first  sleep  blessed  him  in  his  last.  Twenty  years  before, 
he  had  written,  after  being  in  a  white  squall,  — 

And  when,  its  force  expended, 
The  harmless  storm  was  ended, 
And,  as  the  sunrise  splendid 

Came  blushing  o'er  the  sea  ; 
I  thought,  as  day  was  breaking, 
My  little  girls  were  waking, 
And  smiling,  and  making 

A  prayer  at  home  for  me 

Those  little  girls  had  grown  to  be  women  when  the  mournful 
day  broke  that  saw  their  father  lying  dead.  In  those  twenty 
years  of  companionship  with  him,  they  had  learned  much  from 
him  ;  and  one  of  them  has  a  literary  course  before  her  worthy 
of  her  famous  name. 

On  the  bright  wintry  day,  the  last  but  one  of  the  old  year, 
he  was  laid  in  his  grave  at  Kensal  Green,  there  to  mingle  the 
dust  to  which  the  mortal  part  of  him  had  returned,  with  that 
of  a  third  child,  lost  in  her  infancy,  years  ago.  The  heads  of 
a  great  concourse  of  his  fellow-workers  in  the  Arts  were 
bowed  around  his  tomb. 


OBITUARY  POEMS.  19 1 

OBITUARY   POEMS. 
WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

He  was  a  cynic  :  by  his  life  all  wrought 

Of  generous  acts,  mild  words,  and  gentle  ways  ; 

His  heart  wide  open  to  all  kindly  thought, 

His  hand  so  quick  to  give,  his  tongue  to  praise. 

He  was  a  cynic  :  you  might  read  it  writ 

In  that  broad  brow,  crowned  with  its  silver  hair  : 

In  those  blue  eyes,  with  childlike  candor  lit, 
In  that  sweet  smile  his  lips  were  wont  to  wear. 

He  was  a  cynic  :  by  the  love  that  clung 

About  him  from  his  children,  friends,  and  kin  : 

By  the  sharp  pain,  light  pen  and  gossip  tongue 
Wrought  in  him,  chafing  the  soft  heart  within. 

He  was  a  cynic  :  let  his  books  confess 
His  Dobbin's  silent  love  ;  or  yet  more  rare 

His  Newcomers  chivalry  and  simpleness  ; 
His  Little  Sister's  life  of  loving  care. 

And  if  his  acts,  affections,  works,  and  ways 
Stamp  not  upon  the  man  the  cynic's  sneer, 

From  life  to  death,  O  Public,  turn  your  gaze,  — 
The  last  scene  of  a  cynical  career  ! 

Tnese  uninvited  crowds,  this  hush  that  lies, 
Unbroken,  till  the  solemn  hush  of  prayer 

From  many  hundred  reverent  voices  rise, 
Into  the  sunny  stillness  of  the  air. 

These  tears,  in  eyes  but  little  used  to  tears, 

These  sobs,  from  manly  lips,  hard  set  and  grim, 

Of  friends,  to  whom  his  life  lay  bare  for  years, 
Of  strangers,  who  but  knew  his  books,  not  him. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

A  cynic  ?  Yes,  if  't  is  the  cynic's  part 
To  track  the  serpent's  trail,  with  saddened  eye, 

To  mark  how  good  and  ill  divide  the  heart, 
How  lives  in  checkered  shade  and  sunshine  lie  • 

How  e'en  the  best  unto  the  worst  is  knit 
By  brotherhood  of  weakness,  sin,  and  care  ; 

How,  even  in  the  worst,  sparks  may  be  lit 
To  show  all  is  not  utter  darkness  there. 

Through  Vanity's  bright  flaunting  fair  he  walked, 
Making  the  puppets  dance,  the  jugglers  play  ; 

Saw  Virtue  tripping,  honest  effort  balked, 
And  sharpened  wit  on  roguery's  downward  way ; 

And  told  us  what  he  saw  ;  and  if  he  smiled 
His  smile  had  more  of  sadness  than  of  mirth  — 

But  more  of  love  than  either.     Undefined, 
Gentle,  alike  by  accident  of  birth, 

And  gift  of  courtesy  and  grace  of  love, 

When  shall  his  friends  find  such  another  friend  ? 

For  them,  and  for  his  children,  God  above 

Has  comfort.     Let  us  bow  :  God  knows  the  end. 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

A  heart  beneath  a  cynic's  cloak, 

Tender  as  true,  and  good  as  strong  ; 
A  voice  that  like  a  sabre's  stroke, 

Smote  down  the  gilded  shield  of  wrong  ; 
A  stanch  right  hand,  and  full  of  might. 

That  never  dealt  the  unfair  blow  — 
That  even  in  the  thickest  fight 

Could  pause,  and  spare  a  fallen  foe. 
A  giant  genius,  wit  unblamed, 

A  scholar's  intellect  refined, 
A  kindly  spirit,  half  ashamed 

To  own  how  well  it  loved  mankind. 


OBITUARY  POEMS.  193 

This  was  our  general.     Many  a  year, 

Unsullied,  free  from  rents  or  flaws, 
Our  standard  did  he  o'er  us  rear, 

And  gathered  glory  for  our  cause. 
He  never  showed  the  wounds  he  bore  — 

None  knew  how  deep  —  within  his  breast, 
And  now  the  long,  fierce  battle  o'er, 

His  gallant  spirit  is  at  rest. 
O  brother  soldiers  of  the  pen  ! 

Whose  words  are  faint,  whose  eyes  are  dim, 
Vow  by  his  grave  to  be  true  men, 

And  in  life's  warfare  copy  him. 

HISTORICAL  CONTRAST. 

MAY  1701,  DECEMBER  1863. 

When  one  whose  nervous  English  verse 

Public  and  party  hate  defied, 
Who  bore  and  bandied  many  a  curse 

Of  angry  times  —  when  Dryden  died, 

Our  royal  Abbey's  Bishop-Dean 

Waited  for  no  suggestive  prayer, 
But,  ere  one  day  closed  o'er  the  scene, 

Craved,  as  a  boon,  to  lay  him  there. 

The  wayward  faith,  the  faulty  life, 

Vanished  before  a  Nation's  pain  ; 
u  Panther  "  and  "  Hind  "  forgot  their  strife, 
And  rival  statesmen  thronged  the  fane. 

O  gentle  Censor  of  our  age  ! 

Prime  master  of  our  ampler  tongue  ! 
Whose  word  of  wit  and  generous  page 

Were  never  wrath,  except  with  Wrong. 

Fielding  —  without  the  manners' dross, 
Scott  —  with  a  spirit's  larger  room, 
13 


194  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

What  Prelate  deems  thy  grave  his  loss  ? 
What  Halifax  erects  thy  tomb  ? 

But,  maybe,  He  —  who  so  could  draw 
The  hidden  Great  —  the  humble  Wise, 

Yielding-  with  them  to  God's  good  law 
Makes  the  Pantheon  where  he  lies. 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

Now  that  his  noble  form  is  clay, 

One  word  for  good  old  Thackeray, 

One  word  for  gentle  Thackeray, 

Spite  of  his  disbelieving  eye, 

True  Thackeray  —  a  man  who  would  not  lie. 

Among  his  fellows  he  was  peer 

For  any  gentleman  that  ever  was  ; 

And  if  the  lordling  stood  in  fear 

Of  the  rebuke  of  that  satiric  pen, 

Or  if  the  good  man  sometimes  gave  a  tear, 

They  both  were  moved  by  equal  cause, 

They  loved  and  hated  him  with  honest  cause  ; 

'T  was  Nature's  truth  that  touched  the  men. 

O  nights  of  Addison  and  Steele, 

And  Swift,  and  all  those  men,  return  ! 

Oh,  for  some  writer  now  to  make  me  feel  ! 

Oh,  for  some  talker  that  can  bid  me  burn, 

Like  him,  with  his  majestic  power 

Of  pathos,  mixed  with  terrible  attack, 

And  probing  into  records  of  the  past, 

Through  some  enchanted  hour, 

To  show  the  white  and  black, 

And  what  did  not  —  and  what  deserved  to  last  I 

Poet  and  Scholar,  'tis  in  vain 

We  summon  thee  from  those  dim  halls 


OBITUARY  POEMS.  195 

Where  only  death  is  absolute  and  holds  unquestioned  reign. 

Even  Shakespeare  must  go  downward  in  his  dust  — 

And  lie  with  all  the  rest  of  us  in  rust  — 

And  mould  and  gloom  and  mildewed  tomb 

(Mildewed  or  May-dewed  evermore  a  tomb), 

Yet  hoping  still  above  the  skies 

To  have  his  humble  place  among  the  just. 

And  so  "  Hie  Jacet,"  —  that  is  all 

That  can  be  said,  or  writ,  or  sung 

Of  him  who  held  in  such  a  thrall 

With  his  melodious  gift  of  pen  and  tongue, 

Both  nations  —  old  and  young. 

Honor 's  a  hasty  word  to  speak, 

But  now  I  say  it  solemnly  and  slow, 

To  the  One  Englishman  most  like  the  Greek 

Who  wrote  "  The  Clouds  "  two  thousand  years  ago. 

ADSUM. 

I. 

The  Angel  came  by  night, 

(Such  angels  still  come  down  !) 
And  like  a  winter  cloud 

Passed  over  London  town, 
Along  its  lonesome  streets 

Where  Want  had  ceased  to  weep, 
Until  it  reached  a  house 

Where  a  great  man  lay  asleep  ; 
The  man  of  all  his  time 

Who  knew  the  most  of  men,  — 
The  soundest  head  and  heart, 

The  sharpest,  kindest  pen. 
It  paused  beside  his  bed, 

And  whispered  in  his  ear. 
He  never  turned  his  head, 

But  answered,  "  I  am  here." 


196  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

II. 

Into  the  night  they  went. 

At  morning,  side  by  side, 
They  gained  the  sacred  Place 

Where  the  greatest  Dead  abide  : 
Where  grand  old  Homer  sits 

In  godlike  state  benign  : 
Where  broods  in  endless  thought 

The  awful  Florentine. 
Where  sweet  Cervantes  walks, 

A  smile  on  his  grave  face  : 
Where  gossips  quaint  Montaigne, 

The  wisest  of  his  race  : 
Where  Goethe  looks  through  all 

With  that  calm  eye  of  his  : 
Where  —  little  seen  but  Light  — 

The  only  Shakespeare  is  ! 
When  the  new  Spirit  came, 

They  asked  him,  drawing  near, 
"  Art  thou  become  like  us  ?  " 

He  answered,  "  I  am  here." 


CHARLES    DICKENS. 


DICKENS'S  EARLIEST  WRITINGS. 

CONCERNING  Dickens's  earliest  printed  writings, 
Mr.  James  Grant,  the  well-known  journalist  and 
author,  has  supplied  us  with  an  account  which  dif 
fers  much  from  what  has  been  elsewhere  said  upon 
this  part  of  our  author's  career.  "  It  is  everywhere  stated," 
says  Mr.  Grant,  "that  the  earliest  productions  from  his  pen 
made  their  appearance  in  the  columns  of  the  '  Morning  Chron 
icle,'  and  that  Mr.  John  Black,  then  editor  of  that  journal,  was 
the  first  to  discover  and  duly  to  appreciate  the  genius  of  Mr. 
Dickens.  The  fact  was  not  so.  It  is  true  that  he  wrote 
6  Sketches  '  afterwards  in  the  *  Morning  Chronicle,7  but  he  did  - 
not  begin  them  in  that  journal.  Mr.  Dickens  first  became 
connected  with  the  '  Morning  Chronicle,'  as  a  reporter  in  the 
gallery  of  the  House  of  Commons.  This  was  in  1835-36;  but 
Mr.  Dickens  had  been  previously  engaged,  while  in  his  nine 
teenth  year,  as  a  reporter  for  a  publication  entitled  the  '  Mirror 
of  Parliament,'  in  which  capacity  he  occupied  the  very  highest 
rank  among  the  eighty  or  ninety  reporters  for  the  press  then 
in  Parliament.  While  in  the  gallery  of  the  House  of  Com 
mons,  he  was  exceedingly  reserved  in  his  manners.  Though 
interchanging  the  usual  courtesies  of  life  with  all  with  whom 
he  came  into  contact  in  the  discharge  of  his  professional 
duties,  the  only  gentleman  at  that  time  in  the  gallery  of  the 
House  of  Commons  with  whom  he  formed  a  close  personal 
intimacy  was  Mr.  Thomas  Beard,  then  a  reporter  for  the 


1 98  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

'  Morning  Herald,'  and  now  connected  with  the  newspaper 
press  generally,  as  furnishing  the  court  intelligence  in  the 
morning  journals.  The  friendship  thus  formed  between  Mr. 
Dickens  and  Mr.  Beard  so  far  back  as  the  year  1832  was,  I 
believe,  continued  till  the  death  of  Mr.  Dickens. 

"  It  was  about  the  year  1833-34,  before  Mr.  Dickens's  con 
nection  with  the  '  Morning  Chronicle,'  and  before  Mr.  Black, 
then  editor  of  that  journal,  had  ever  met  with  him,  that  he 
commenced  his  literary  career  as  an  amateur  writer.  He  made 
his  debut  in  the  latter  end  of  1834  or  beginning  of  1835,  in  the 
'  Old  Monthly  Magazine,'  then  conducted  by  Captain  Holland, 
an  intimate  friend  of  mine.  The  '  Old  Monthly  Magazine  ' 
had  been  started  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  before  by 
Sir  Richard  Philips,  and  was  for  many  years  a  periodical  of 
large  circulation  and  high  literary  reputation  —  a  fact  which 
might  be  inferred  from  another  fact,  namely,  that  the  '  New 
Monthly  Magazine,'  started  by  Mr.  Colburn,  under  the  edito 
rial  auspices  of  Mr.  Thomas  Campbell,  author  of  i  The  Pleas 
ures  of  Hope,'  appropriated  the  larger  portion  of  its  title. 
The  i  Old  Monthly  Magazine  '  was  published  at  half  a  crown, 
being  the  same  price  as  '  Blackwood,'  '  Fraser,'  and  '  Bent- 
ley's  '  magazines  are  at  the  present  day. 

"  It  was,  as  I  have  said,  in  this  monthly  periodical  —  not  in 
the  columns  of  the  '  Morning  Chronicle  '  —  that  Mr.  Dickens 
first  appeared  in  the  realms  of  literature.  He  sent,  in  the  first 
instance,  his  contributions  to  that  periodical  anonymously. 
These  consisted  of  sketches,  chiefly  of  a  humorous  character, 
and  were  simply  signed  '  Boz.'  For  a  long  time  they  did  not 
attract  any  special  attention,  but  were  generally  spoken  of  in 
newspaper  notices  of  the  magazine  as  '  clever,'  'graphic,'  and 
so  forth. 

"  Early  in  1836  the  editorship  of  the  '  Monthly  Magazine'  — 
the  adjective  '  Old  '  having  been  by  this  time  dropped  —  came 
into  my  hands ;  and  in  making  the  necessary  arrangements  for 
its  transfer  from  Captain  Holland  —  then,  I  should  have  men 
tioned,  proprietor  as  well  as  editor  —  I  expressed  my  great 
admiration  of  the  series  of  i  Sketches  by  Boz,'  which  had  ap- 


DICKENS 'S  EARLIEST  WRITINGS.  199 

peared  in  the  '  Monthly,'  and  said  I  should  like  to  make  an 
arrangement  with  the  writer  for  a  continuance  of  them  under 
my  editorship.  With  that  view  I  asked  him  the  name  of  the 
author.  It  will  sound  strange  in  most  ears  when  I  state,  that 
a  name  which  has  for  so  many  years  filled  the  whole  civilized 
world  with  its  fame  was  not  remembered  by  Captain  Holland. 
But  he  added,  after  expressing  his  regret  that  he  could  not  at 
the  moment  recollect  the  real  name  of  i  Boz,'  that  he  had  re 
ceived  a  letter  from  him  a  few  days  previously,  and  that  if  I 
would  meet  him  at  the  same  time  and  place  next  day,  he  would 
bring  me  that  letter,  because  it  related  to  the  i  Sketches '  of 
the  writer  in  the  i  Monthly  Magazine.'  As  Captain  Holland 
knew  I  was  at  the  time  a  parliamentary  reporter  on  the  '  Morn 
ing  Chronicle,'  then  a  journal  of  high  literary  reputation,  and 
of  great  political  influence,  he  supplemented  his  remark  by 
saying  that  t  Boz '  was  a  parliamentary  reporter  ;  on  which  I 
observed  that  I  must,  in  that  case,  know  him,  at  least  by  sight, 
as  I  was  acquainted,  in  that  respect,  more  or  less,  with  all  the 
reporters  in  the  gallery  of  the  House  of  Commons. 

"  Captain  Holland  and  I  met,  according  to  appointment,  on 
the  following  day,  when  he  brought  me  the  letter  to  which  he 
had  referred.  I  then  found  that  the  name  of  the  author  of 
'  Sketches  by  Boz '  was  Charles  Dickens.  The  letter  was 
written  in  the  most  moderate  terms.  It  was  simply  to  the 
effect  that  as  he  (Mr.  Dickens)  had  hitherto  given  all  his  con 
tributions  —  those  signed  '  Boz  '  —  gratuitously,  he  would  be 
glad  if  Captain  Holland  thought  his  i  Sketches '  to  be  worthy 
of  any  small  remuneration,  as  otherwise  he  would  be  obliged 
to  discontinue  them,  because  he  was  going  very  soon  to  get 
married,  and  therefore  would.be  subjected  to  more  expenses 
than  he  was  while  living  alone,  which  he  was  during  the  time, 
in  Furnival's  Inn. 

"  It  was  not  quite  clear  from  Mr.  Dickens's  letter  to  Cap 
tain  Holland,  whether  he  meant  he  would  be  glad  to  receive 
any  small  consideration  for  the  series  of  *  Sketches,'  about  a 
dozen  in  number,  which  he  had  furnished  to  the  '  Monthly 
Magazine '  without  making  any  charge,  or  whether  he  only 


200  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

expected  to  be  paid  for  those  he  might  afterwards  send. 
Neither  do  I  know  whether  Captain  Holland  furnished  him 
with  any  pecuniary  expression  of  his  admiration  of  the 
i  Sketches  by  Boz '  which  had  appeared  in  the  i  Monthly.'  But 
immediately  on  receiving  Mr.  Dickens's  letter,  I  wrote  to  him, 
saying  that  the  editorship  of  the  '  Monthly  Magazine  7  had 
come  into  my  hands,  and  that,  greatly  admiring  his  '  Sketches  ' 
under  the  signature  of  '  Boz,'  I  should  be  glad  if  we  could 
come  to  any  arrangement  for  a  continuance  of  them.  I  con 
cluded  my  note  by  expressing  a  hope  that  he  would,  at  his 
earliest  convenience,  let  me  know  on  what  terms  per  sheet  he 
would  be  willing  to  furnish  me  with  similar  sketches  every 
month  for  an  indefinite  period. 

"  By  return  of  post  I  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Dickens,  to 
the  effect  that  he  had  just  entered  into  an  arrangement  with 
Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall  to  write  a  monthly  serial.  He  did 
not  name  the  work,  but  I  found  in  a  few  weeks  it  was  none 
other  than  the  '  Pickwick  Papers.'  He  added,  that  as  this 
serial  would  occupy  much  of  his  spare  time  from  his  duties  as 
a  reporter,  he  could  not  undertake  to  furnish  me  with  the  pro 
posed  sketches  for  less  than  eight  guineas  per  sheet,  which 
was  at  the  rate  of  half  a  guinea  per  page. 

"  I  wrote  to  him  in  reply  that  the  price  was  not  too  much, 
but  that  I  could  not  get  the  proprietor  to  give  the  amount, 
because  when  the  i  Monthly  Magazine  '  came  into  his  hands  it 
was  not  in  the  same  flourishing  state  as  it  once  had  been.  I 
was  myself,  at  this  time,  getting  ten  guineas  a  sheet  from 
Captain  Marryat  for  writing  for  his  l  Metropolitan  Magazine/ 
which  was  started  by  Thomas  Campbell  and  Tom  Moore,  in 
opposition  to  the  '  New  Monthly  Magazine,'  and  at  the  rate 
of  twenty  guineas  per  sheet  for  my  contributions  to  the 
*  Penny  Cyclopaedia.' 

"  Only  imagine,''  concludes  Mr.  Grant,  with  pardonable 
fervor,  "  Mr.  Dickens  offering  to  furnish  me  with  a  continua 
tion,  for  any  length  of  time  which  I  might  have  named,  of  his 
4  Sketches  by  Boz  '  for  eight  guineas  a  sheet,  whereas  in  little 
more  than  six  months  from  that  date  he  could  —  so  great  in 


DIC KENS' S  EARLIEST  WRITINGS.  2OI 

the  interval  had  his  popularity  become  —  have  got  loo  guineas 
per  sheet  of  sixteen  pages  from  any  of  the  leading  periodicals 
of  the  day  !  " 

Dr.  Charles  Mackay  writes  :  "  John  Black,  of  the  <  Morning 
Chronicle,'  was  always  keen  to  discover  young  genius,  and  to 
help  it  onward  in  the  struggle  of  life.  He  very  early  discov 
ered  the  talents  of  Dickens  —  not  only  as  a  reporter,  but  as  a 
writer."  Dr.  Mackay  was  sub-editor  of  the  <  Morning  Chron 
icle  '  when  Dickens  was  a  reporter.  He  continues  :  "  I  have 
often  heard  Black  speak  of  him,  and  predict  his  future  fame. 
When  Dickens  had  become  famous,  Black  exerted  all  his 
influence  with  Sir  John  Easthope,  principal  proprietor  of  the 
4  Chronicle,'  to  have  Dickens  engaged  as  a  writer  of  leading 
articles.  He  (Black)  had  his  wish,  and  Dickens  wrote  sev 
eral  articles  ;  but  he  did  not  seem  to  take  kindly  to  such  work, 
and  did  not  long  continue  at  it." 

And  Mr.  Gruneisen  writes  :  "  I  believe  I  must  add  my 
name  to  the  remaining  list  of  editorial  workers  who  became 
acquainted  with  Charles  Dickens  when  he  was  in  the  Gallery. 
I  hope  my  memory  is  not  deceiving  me  when  I  claim  for  Vin 
cent  Dowling,  once  a  reporter,  and  for  years  the  respected 
editor  of  '  Bell's  Life  in  London,'  the  credit  of  having  been 
the  first  to  discover  the  genius  for  sketching  characters  of 
Dickens.  'J.  G.'  may  remember  that  the  proprietary  of  the 
'  Morning  Chronicle,'  the  l  Observer,'  and  '  Bell's  Life  '  was  in 
the  hands,  if  I  remember  rightly,  exclusively  of  Mr.  Perry, 
and  the  publication  of  the  several  papers  was  at  the  Strand 
office.  I  have  a  distinct  recollection  that  Dr.  Black's  notice 
of  Dickens  was  based  on  writings  which  had  been  in  print 
prior  to  his  joining  the  reporting  staff  of  the  '  Morning  Chron 
icle.'  Dr.  Black  was  always  very  emphatic  in  his  prognostica 
tions  of  the  brilliant  future  of  Charles  Dickens.  In  1835  tne 
famed  novelist  was  spoken  of  among  his  colleagues  as  a  man 
of  mark.  The  '  Boz '  sketches,  if  not  the  rage  of  the  general 
public,  had  attracted  the  attention  of  the  literary  circles  of  the 
day. 

u  Respecting   the   marvelous   facility  of   Dickens  as  a  re- 


2O2  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

porter,  many  versions  of  his  note-taking  of  a  speech  of  the  late 
Lord  Derby  (when  Lord  Stanley)  have  been  current,  and  I 
had  a  correspondence  with  Dickens  on  the  subject  only  some 
months  since,  he  promising  to  give  me  the  accurate  record  of 
his  stenographic  feat  when  he  met  me.  This  promise  he  ful 
filled  the  last  time,  alas  !  I  ever  saw  him  alive,  at  the  anniver 
sary  dinner  of  the  Newsvenders'  Benevolent  Institution, 
when  he  took  the  chair  in  Freemasons'  Hall  —  the  last 
banquet  at  which  he  presided.  It  was  in  consequence  of  a 
reporter  having  broken  down  for  the  '  Mirror  of  Parliament ' 
that  the  late  Lord  Derby,  after  complimenting  Dickens  for  his 
report  in  the  '  Chronicle,'  dictated  to  him  his  speech  —  the 
'  Mirror,'  as  you  are  aware,  giving  in  those  days  verbatim 
reports." 

When  Charles  Dickens  first  become  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Vincent  Dowling,  editor  of  "  Bell's  Life  "  —  or  "  Sleepless 
Life,"  as  he  facetiously  termed  it,  from  its  Latin  heading, 
"  Nunquam  Dormio  "  ("wide  awake")  —  he  would  generally 
stop  at  Old  Tom  Goodwin's  oyster  and  refreshment  rooms, 
opposite  the  office,  in  the  Strand.  On  one  occasion,  Mr. 
Dowling,  not  knowing  who  had  called,  desired  that  the  gentle 
man  would  leave  his  name,  to  be  sent  over  to  the  office, 
whereupon  young  Dickens  wrote  :  — 


CHARLES   DICKENS, 

Resurrectionist^ 

In  search  of  a  Subject. 


Some  recent  cases  of  body-snatching  had  then  made  the 
matter  a  general  topic  for  public  discussion,  and  Goodwin 
pasted  up  the  strange  address-card  for  the  amusement  of  the 
medical  students  who  patronized  his  oysters.  It  was  still 
upon  his  wall  when  "  Pickwick  "  had  made  Dickens  famous, 
and  the  old  man  was  never  tired  of  pointing  it  out  to  those 
whom  he  was  pleased  to  call  his  "  bivalve  demolishers  !  " 


POPULARITY  OF  "PICKWICK."  203 

We  may  just  mention  that  it  was  Dowling  who  rushed  down 
from  the  reporters'  gallery  and  seized  Bellingham,  after  his 
assassination  of  Spencer  Perceval. 

POPULARITY  OF  "  PICKWICK." 

Mr.  James  Grant  has  favored  us  with  some  personal  recol 
lections  of  the  fortune  which  attended  the  first  publication  of 
"  Pickwick  "  :  — 

"  In  connection  with  the  rapidity  of  Mr.  Dickens's  rise,  and 
the  heights  to  which  he  soared  in  the  regions  of  literature,  I 
may  mention  a  few  facts  which  have  not  before  found  their 
way  into  print.  The  terms  on  which  he  concluded  an  ar 
rangement  with  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall  for  the  publication 
of  the  (  Pickwick  Papers '  were  fifteen  guineas  for  each  num 
ber,  the  number  consisting  of  two  sheets,  or  thirty-two  pages. 
That  was  a  rather  smaller  sum  than  that  at  which  he  offered, 
just  at  the  same  time,  to  contribute  to  the  '  Monthly  Maga 
zine,'  then  under  my  editorship. 

"  For  the  first  five  months  of  its  existence  Mr.  Dickens's 
first  serial,  the  '  Pickwick  Papers,'  was  a  signal  failure,  and 
notwithstanding  the  fact  that  Mr.  Charles  Tilt,  at  that  time  a 
publisher  of  considerable  eminence,  made  extraordinary  ex 
ertions,  out  of  friendship  for  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall,  to 
insure  its  success.  He  sent  out,  on  what  is  called  sale  or  re 
turn,  to  all  parts  of  the  provinces,  no  fewer  than  fifteen  hun 
dred  copies  of  each  of  the  first  five  numbers.  This  gave  the 
i  Pickwick  Papers  '  a  very  extensive  publicity,  yet  Mr.  Tilt's 
only  result  was  an  average  sale  of  about  fifty  copies  of  each 
of  the  five  parts.  A  certain  number  of  copies  sold,  of  course, 
through  other  channels,  but  commercially  the  publication  was 
a  decided  failure.  Two  months  before  this  Mr.  Seymour,  the 
artist,  died  suddenly,  but  left  sketches  for  two  parts  more, 
and  the  question  was  then  debated  by  the  publishers  whether 
they  ought  not  to  discontinue  the  publication  of  the  serial. 
But  just  while  the  matter  was  under  their  consideration,  Sam 
Weller,  who  had  been  introduced  in  the  previous  number, 


204  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

began  to  attract  great  attention,  and  to  call  forth  much  ad 
miration.  The  press  was  all  but  unanimous  in  praising 
'  Samivel '  as  an  entirely  original  character,  whom  none  but  a 
great  genius  could  have  created  ;  and  all  of  a  sudden,  in  con 
sequence  of  '  Samivel's  '  popularity,  the  '  Pickwick  Papers  ' 
rose  to  an  unheard-of  popularity.  The  back  numbers  of  the 
work  were  ordered  to  a  large  extent,  and  of  course  all  idea  of 
discontinuing  it  was  abandoned. 

"  No  one  can  read  these  interesting  incidents  without  being 
struck  with  the  fact  that  the  future  literary  career  of  Mr. 
Dickens  should  have  been  for  a  brief  season  placed  in  circum 
stances  of  so  much  risk  of  proving  a  failure  ;  for  there  can  be 
no  doubt  that,  had  the  publication  of  his  serial  been  discon 
tinued  at  this  particular  period,  there  was  little  or  no  proba 
bility  that  other  publishers  would  have  undertaken  the  risk  of 
any  other  literary  venture  of  his.  And  he  might  consequently 
have  lived  and  died,  great  as  his  gifts  and  genius  were,  with 
out  being  known  in  the  world  of  literature.  How  true  it  is 
that  there  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men  ! 

"  By  the  time  the  l  Pickwick  Papers  '  had  reached  their 
twelfth  number,  that  being  half  of  the  numbers  of  which  it 
was  originally  intended  the  work  should  consist,  Messrs. 
Chapman  &  Hall  were  so  gratified  with  the  signal  success  to 
which  it  had  now  attained,  that  they  sent  Mr.  Dickens  a 
check  for  ,£500,  as  a  practical  expression  of  their  satisfaction 
with  the  sale.  The  work  continued  steadily  to  increase  in 
circulation  until  its  completion,  when  the  sale  had  all  but 
reached  40,000  copies.  In  the  interval  between  the  twelfth 
and  concluding  number,  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall  sent  Mr. 
Dickens  several  checks,  amounting  in  all  to  ,£3,000,  in  ad 
dition  to  the  fifteen  guineas  per  number  which  they  had  en 
gaged  at  the  beginning  to  give  him.  It  was  understood  at  the 
time  that  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall  made  a  clear  profit  of 
nearly  ^20,000  by  the  sale  of  the  '  Pickwick  Papers,'  after 
paying  Mr.  Dickens  in  round  numbers  ,£3,500. 

"  Probably,"  concludes  Mr.  Grant,  "  there  are  few  instances 
on  record  in  the  annals  of  literature  in  which  an  author  rose 


POPULARITY    OF  "PICKWICK."  205 

so  rapidly  to  popularity  and  attained  so  great  a  height  in  it  as 
Mr.  Dickens.  His  popularity  was  all  the  more  remarkable 
because  it  was  reached  while  yet  a  mere  youth.  He  was  in 
comparably  the  most  popular  author  of  his  day  before  he  had 
attained  his  twenty-sixth  year  ;  and  what  is  even  more  ex 
traordinary  still,  he  retained  the  distinction  of  being  the  most 
brilliant  author  of  the  age  until  the  very  hour  of  his  death  — 
a  period  of  no  less  than  thirty-five  years." 

Since  the  illustrious  author's  decease  even  the  book-binders 
who  had  the  charge  of  "Pickwick"  have  been  claiming  the 
honor  of  stitching  the  sheets  together,  and  giving  their  recol 
lections  to  the  newspapers.  It  having  been  stated  in  the 
"  Daily  Telegraph  "  newspaper  that  "  it  was  a  question  be 
tween  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall  and  their  binder,  Mr.  Bone," 
"  whether  a  greater  or  less  number  than  seven  hundred  copies 
should  be  stitched  in  wrappers  ;  instead  of  hundreds,  it  soon 
became  necessary  to  provide  for  the  sale  of  thousands  ;  and 
the  green  covers  of  '  Pickwick '  were  seen  all  over  the  coun 
try,"  a  Mr.  Joseph  Aked,  of  Green  Street,  Leicester  Square, 
on  the  following  day  sent  this  correction  to  the  same  journal : 

"  SIR,  —  In  your  sketch  of  the  Life  and  Death  of  Mr. 
Charles  Dickens,  in  yesterday's  '  Telegraph,'  you  state  that 
the  first  order  given  to  the  binder  for  Part  I.  of  the  i  Pick 
wick'  was  seven  hundred  copies,  and  it  was  a  question  be 
tween  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall,  and  Mr.  Bone,  the  binder, 
whether  a  greater  or  less  number  than  seven  hundred  should 
be  stitched  in  wrapper. 

"  The  first  order  for  Part  I.  of  the  '  Pickwick  '  was  for  four 
hundred  copies  only,  and  the  order  was  given  to  myself  to  ex 
ecute  (not  to  Mr.  Bone)  by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall,  the  pub 
lishers,  who  in  those  days  did  not  consult  the  binder  about 
the  number  of  copies  they  would  require.  Also  the  first  num 
ber,  stitched  and  put  in  the  green  cover,  was  done  by  myself ^ 
my  work-people  having  left  off  work  for  the  day. 

"  Before  the  completion  of  the  work  the  sale  amounted  to 
nearly  40,000,  the  orders  being  given  to  myself  and  to  Mr. 
Bone." 


206  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Readers  of  "  Pickwick  "  found  the  style  so  fresh  and  novel, 
so  totally  unlike  the  forced  fun  and  unreal  laughter  of  the 
other  light  reading  of  their  time,  that  the  smallest  scrap  from 
any  portion  of  the  work  was  deemed  worthy  of  frequent  quota 
tion  —  a  gem  in  itself.  We  have  seen  a  little  book  —  now 
very  rare,  and  not  to  be  found  in  the  British  Museum  —  of 
which  thousands  and  thousands  of  copies  must  have  been  sold 
by  Mr.  Park,  of  Long  Lane,  and  Mr.  Catnach,  of  Seven  Dials, 
bearing  the  title  of  "  Beauties  of  Pickwick." 

The  famed  Pickwick  cigar  —  the  "  Penny  Pickwick  "  of  our 
childhood  —  is  too  well  known  to  need  any  comment.  It 
was  a  "  brand  "  originally  made  by  a  manufacturer  in  Leman 
Street,  Minories,  and  sold  in  boxes  and  papers  decorated  with 
Mr.  Pickwick,  hat  off,  bowing  to  you  in  the  politest  manner, 
and  offering  for  your  notice  a  long  scroll,  setting  forth  the  ex 
cellence  of  the  cigar  —  a  small  cheroot,  and  containing  about 
one  half  of  the  tobacco  used  in  a  cigar  of  this  kind  sold  at  zd. 
At  the  present  day  "  Pickwicks  "  are  patronized  almost  entirely 
by  cab-drivers. 

Then  there  were  "  Pickwick "  hats,  with  narrow  brims 
curved  up  at  the  sides,  as  in  the  figure  of  the  immortal  pos 
sessor  of  that  name  ;  "  Pickwick "  canes,  with  tassels  ;  and 
"  Pickwick  "  coats,  with  brass  and  horn  buttons,  and  the  cloth 
invariably  dark  green  or  dark  plum.  The  name  "  Pickwick  " 
is  said  to  have  been  taken  from  the  hamlet  or  cluster  of  houses 
which  formed  the  last  resting-stage  for  coaches  going  to  Bath, 
which  town,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  the  scene  of  Sam 
Weller's  chaffing  of  "  Blazes,"  the  red-breeched  footman. 

A  writer,  whose  name  we  have  forgotten,  remarked  that 
"  Pickwick  "  was  made  up  of  "  two  pounds  of  Smollett,  three 
ounces  of  Sterne,  a  handful  of  Hook,  a  dash  of  the  grammati 
cal  Pierce  Egan  —  incidents  at  pleasure,  served  with  an  orig 
inal  sauce  piqiiante"  And  Lady  Chatterton,  in  one  of  her 
works,  remarked :  "  Mr.  Davy,  who  accompanied  Colonel 
Chesney  up  the  Euphrates,  has  recently  been  in  the  service  of 
Mohammed  Ali  Pacha.  '  Pickwick  '  happening  to  reach  Davy 
while  he  was  at  Damascus,  he  read  a  part  of  it  to  the  Pacha, 


"PICKWICK"   DRAMATIZED. 

who  was  so  delighted  with  it,  that  Davy  was  on  one  occasion 
summoned  to  him  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  to  finish  the 
reading  of  some  part  in  which  they  had  been  interrupted.  Mr. 
Davy  read  in  Egypt  upon  another  occasion,  some  passages 
from  these  unrivaled  papers  to  a  blind  Englishman,  who  was 
in  such  ecstasy  with  what  he  had  heard,  that  he  exclaimed  he 
was  almost  thankful  he  could  not  see  he  was  in  a  foreign 
country,  for  that,  while  he  listened,  he  felt  completely  as 
though  he  were  again  in  England." 

"  PICKWICK  "  DRAMATIZED. 

Moncrieff,  the  famous  author  of  "  Tom  and  Jerry,"  and  a 
hundred  farces  and  light  comedies,  dramatized  "  Pickwick  " 
long  before  it  was  finished,  for  the  Strand  Theatre,  where  it 
was  performed  under  the  title  of  "  Sam  Weller ;  or  the  Pick- 
wickians  ; "  Mr.  W.  J.  Hammond  sustaining  the  character  of 
Sam  Weller.  The  termination  of  the  drama  was  very  differ 
ent  to  that  given  in  the  book  itself,  as  will  be  readily  seen. 
The  adapter  caused  Mrs.  Bardell  to  be  tried  and  found  guilty 
of  attempted  bigamy,  her  husband  being  Alfred  Jingle. 
Messrs.  Dodson  £  Fogg,  the  Freeman  Court  sharks,  were 
sent  to  Newgate  for  conspiracy,  and  only  released  upon  pay 
ment  of  the  sum  of  ^300  or  thereabouts,  which  Mr.  Pickwick, 
on  receiving,  very  generously  handed  to  Jingle  to  start  afresh 
in  the  world  —  the  curtain  falling  with  a  herald  entering  and 
announcing  the  accession  of  Queen  Victoria,  which  occurred 
about  this  time  ! 

Another  version  was  acted  with  indifferent  success,  at  the 
Adelphi,  Yates  representing  Mr.  Pickwick,  and  John  Reeve 
Sam  Weller.  In  February,  1838,  Mr.  G.  W.  M.  Reynolds 
started  a  monthly  "  Pickwick  Abroad  ;  or,  A  Tour  in  France," 
illustrated  by  Alfred  Crowquill.  As  a  curiosity,  it  deserves  to 
be  read,  if  only  to  see  the  immense  difference  existing  be 
tween  the  two  books. 


2O8  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

THE  FIRST  HINT  OF  "  PICKWICK." 

A  great  deal  has  been  said  as  to  the  origin  of  "  Pickwick," 
and  in  the  chapter  devoted  to  a  consideration  of  this  favorite 
work  the  present  writer  has  stated  from  whence  the  name,  at 
least,  was  taken.  He  did  not,  however,  for  the  moment  re 
member  a  conversation  upon  the  subject  which  he  had  with  a 
friend  not  long  since,  which  conversation  was  shortly  followed 
by  a  letter  from  him  upon  this  same  topic.  The  letter  runs 
thus  :  — 

"  When  I  stated  to  you  that  Dickens  took  his  ideal  of  novel- 
writing  from  the  works  of  Mr.  Pierce  Egan,  I  had  nothing  but 
internal  evidence  to  go  upon.  When  he  began  to  write,  the 
most  popular  fictions  were  the  descriptions  of  '  Life  in  London ' 
connected  with  the  names  of  '  Tom  '  and  '  Jerry.'  The  grand 
object  of  Dickens,  as  a  novelist,  has  been  to  depict  not  so 
much  human  life  as  human  life  in  London,  and  this  he  has 
done  after  a  fashion  which  he  learned  from  the  '  Life  in  Lon 
don  '  of  Mr.  Pierce  Egan.  If  you  remember  that  once  famous 
book,  you  will  call  to  mind  how  he  takes  his  heroes  —  the 
everlasting  Tom  and  Jerry — now  to  a  fencing-saloon,  now  to 
a  dancing-house,  now  to  a  chop-house,  now  to  a  spunging- 
house.  The  object  is  not  to  evolve  the  characters  of  Tom 
and  Jerry,  but  to  introduce  them  in  new  scene  after  new  scene. 
And  so  you  will  find  with  Dickens.  He  invents  new  charac 
ters,  but  he  never  invents  them  without  at  the  same  time  in 
venting  new  situations  and  surroundings  of  London  life.  Other 
novelists  would  not  object  to  invent  new  characters  appearing 
in  the  same  position  of  life  as  the  characters  in  some  preced 
ing  novel,  and  trusting  for  novelty  to  the  newness  of  the  sur 
roundings  and  the  situation.  Dickens  insists  upon  putting 
the  new  characters  into  a  new  and  unexpected  trade  —  doll- 
making,  perhaps,  or  news-vending  —  and  he  has  always  in 
view  some  new  phase  of  London  life  which  he  is  far  more 
anxious  to  exhibit  than  the  characters  without  which  it  is  im 
possible  to  bring  the  phase  into  prominence.  If  you  look  to 
his  writings,  or  if  you  talk  to  him,  you  will  find  that  his  first 


DICKENS  A   DRAMATIST.  209 

1  thought  is  to  find  out  something  new  about  London  life  — 
some  new  custom  or  trade  or  mode  of  living  —  and  his  second 
thought  is  to  imagine  the  people  engaged  in  that  custom  or 
trade  or  mode  of  living.  Now  this  is  Pierce  Egan's  style  — 
and  Dickens,  with  rare  genius,  and  with  large  sympathies,  has 
followed  in  grooves  which  the  once  celebrated  Pierce  laid 
down.  Pierce  Egan  had  no  wit,  and  his  conversations  are 
not  worth  mentioning.  Dickens  riots  in  wit,  and  what  Pierce 
would  have  shown  in  a  description,  Dickens  makes  out  in  a 
conversation.  But  the  objects  of  the  two  men  to  magnify 
London  life,  and  to  show  it  in  all  its  phases,  were  the  same." 

Upon  examining  Pierce  Egan's  "  Finish  "  —  a  sequel  to  his 
"  Life  in  London "  —  we  certainly  find  the  characters  are 
somewhat  similar  to  those  in  "  Pickwick."  In  other  matters, 
too,  a  parallel  may  be  drawn  —  thus,  the  Bench  instead  of  the 
Fleet,  and  the  archery  match  instead  of  the  shooting  party. 
But  the  most  curious  coincidence  is  that  the  "  Fat  Knight " 
—  the  counterpart  of  Mr.  Pickwick — is  first  met  by  Corin 
thian  Tom  at  the  village  of  Pickwick  ! 

DICKENS  A  DRAMATIST. 

During  the  publication  of  "  The  Pickwick  Papers "  St. 
James's  Theatre  was  opened,  September  29,  1836,  with  a 
burletta  entitled  "  The  Strange  Gentleman,"  written  by 
"  Boz ; "  Pritt  Harley  acted  the  Strange  Gentleman;  and 
"  Boz,"  himself,  on  one  occasion  took  a  part.  The  piece  ran 
until  December,  when  it  was  withdrawn  for  an  operatic  bur 
letta,  "  The  Village  Coquettes,"  by  the  same  author,  the  music 
by  John  Hullah.  The  parts  were  sustained  by  Messrs.  Harley 
(as  Martin  Stokes),  Braham  (as  Squire  Norton),  Bennett  (as 
George  Edmunds),  and  John  Parry  ;  Mesdames  Smith,  Rains- 
forth  (as  Lucy  Benson),  and  others.  It  met  with  a  marked 
reception ;  and  Braham,  for  a  long  time  after,  at  different  con 
certs,  sang  "  The  Child  and  the  Old  Man  sat  alone,"  inva 
riably  getting  encored  most  enthusiastically.  Three  other 
songs  in  the  burletta  were  great  favorites,  namely,  "  Love  is 
14 


2IO  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

not  a  Feeling  to  pass  away,"  "  Autumn  Leaves,"  and  "  There  's 
a  Charm  in  Spring."  The  book  of  the  words  was  published 
by  Mr.  Bentley,  and  dedicated  to  J.  Pritt  Harley  in  the  fol 
lowing  terms  :  — 

"  My  dramatic  bantlings  are  no  sooner  born  than  you  father 
them.  You  have  made  my  Strange  Gentleman  exclusively 
your  own  ;  you  have  adopted  Martin  Stokes  with  equal  readi 
ness." 

The  author,  "  Boz,"  excuses  himself  for  appearing  before 
the  public  as  the  composer  of  an  operatic  burletta  in  the  fol 
lowing  words  :  — 

" '  Either  the  Honorable  Gentleman  is  in  the  right,  or  he  is 
not,'  is  a  phrase  in  very  common  use  within  the  walls  of  Par 
liament.  This  drama  may  have  a  plot,  or  it  may  not ;  and 
the  songs  may  be  poetry,  or  they  may  not ;  and  the  whole 
affair  from  beginning  to  end,  may  be  great  nonsense,  or  it  may 
not ;  just  as  the  honorable  gentleman  or  lady  who  reads  it 
may  happen  to  think.  So,  retaining  his  own  private  and  par 
ticular  opinion  upon  the  subject  (an  opinion  which  he  formed 
upwards  of  a  year  ago,  when  he  wrote  the  piece),  the  author 
leaves  every  gentleman  or  lady  to  form  his  or  hers,  as  he  or 
she  may  think  proper,  without  saying  one  word  to  influence  or 
conciliate  them. 

"  All  he  wishes  to  say  is  this  —  that  he  hopes  Mr.  Braham, 
and  all  the  performers  who  assisted  in  the  representation  of 
this  Opera,  will  accept  his  warmest  thanks  for  the  interest 
they  evinced  in  it  from  its  very  first  rehearsal,  and  for  their 
zealous  efforts  in  his  behalf — efforts  which  have  crowned  it 
with  a  degree  of  success  far  exceeding  his  most  sanguine  an 
ticipations,  and  of  which  no  form  of  words  could  speak  his 
acknowledgment. 

"It  is  needless  to  add,  that  the  libretto  of  an  Opera  must 
be  to  a  certain  extent,  a  mere  vehicle  for  the  music  ;  and  that 
it  is  scarcely  fair  or  reasonable  to  judge  it  by  those  strict  rules 
of  criticism  which  would  be  justly  applicable  to  a  five-act 
tragedy  or  a  finished  comedy." 


"OLIVER    TWIST."  211 

•» 

"OLIVER  TWIST." 

Mr.  Sheldon  M'Kenzie,  in  the  American  "  Round  Table," 
relates  this  anecdote  of  "  Oliver  Twist :  " 

"  In  London  I  was  intimate  with  the  brothers  Cruikshank, 
Robert  and  George,  but  more  particularly  with  the  latter. 
Having  called  upon  him  one  day  at  his  house  (it  then  was  in 
Mydleton  Terrace,  Pentonville),  I  had  to  wait  while  he  was 
finishing  an  etching,  for  which  a  printer's  boy  was  waiting. 
To  while  away  the  time,  I  gladly  complied  with  his  suggestion 
that  I  should  look  over  a  portfolio  crowded  with  etchings, 
proofs,  and  drawings,  which  lay  upon  the  sofa.  Among  these, 
carelessly  tied  together  in  a  wrap  of  brown  paper,  was  a  series 
of  some  twenty-five  or  thirty  drawings,  very  carefully  finished, 
through  most  of  which  were  carried  the  well  known  portraits 
of  Fagin,  Bill  Sykes  and  his  dog,  Nancy,  the  Artful  Dodger, 
and  Master  Charles  Bates — all  well  known  to  the  readers  of 
6  Oliver  Twist.'  There  was  no  mistake  about  it ;  and  when 
Cruikshank  turned  round,  his  work  finished,  I  said  as  much. 
He  told  me  that  it  had  long  been  in  his  mind  to  show  the  life 
of  a  London  thief  by  a  series  of  drawings  engraved  by  him 
self,  in  which,  without  a  single  line  of  letter-press,  the  story 
would  be  strikingly  and  clearly  told.  '  Dickens,'  he  continued, 
'  dropped  in  here  one  day,  just  as  you  have  done,  and,  while 
waiting  until  I  could  speak  with  him,  took  up  that  identical 
portfolio,  and  ferreted  out  that  bundle  of  drawings.  When  he 
came  to  that  one  which  represents  Fagin  in  the  condemned 
cell,  he  studied  it  for  half  an  hour,  and  told  me  that  he  was 
tempted  to  change  the  whole  plot  of  his  story  ;  not  to  carry 
Oliver  Twist  through  adventures  in  the  country,  but  to  take 
him  up  into  the  thieves'  den  in  London,  show  what  their  life 
was,  and  bring  Oliver  through  it  without  sin  or  shame.  I  con 
sented  to  let  him  write  up  to  as  many  of  the  designs  as  he 
thought  would  suit  his  purpose  ;  and  that  was  the  way  in 
which  Fagin,  Sykes,  and  Nancy  were  created.  My  drawings 
suggested  them,  rather  than  individuality  suggesting  my  draw 
ings.'  " 


212  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


POETICAL  EPISTLE  FROM  FATHER  PROUT. 

Just  before  the  last  installment  of  "  Oliver  Twist  "  was  pub 
lished,  there  appeared  in  "  Bentley's  Miscellany  "  this 

"POETICAL   EPISTLE   FROM   FATHER  PROUT  TO  BOZ. 


"  A  Rhyme !  a  rhyme !  from  a  distant  clime  —  from  the  gulf  of  the  Genoese  ; 
O'er  the  rugged  scalps  of  the  Julian  Alps,  dear  Boz !   I  send  you  these, 
To  light  the  Wick  your  candlestick  holds  up,  or,  should  you  list, 
To  usher  in  the  yarn  you  spin  concerning  Oliver  Twist. 


Immense  applause  you  've  gained,  O  Boz!  through  Continental  Europe  ; 
You  '11  make  Pickwick  oecumenick  ;  *  of  fame  you  have  a  sure  hope  ; 
For  here  your  books  are  found,  gadzooks  !  in  greater  luxe  than  any 
That  have  issued  yet,  ho'  press' d  or  wet,  from  the  types  of  GALIGNANI. 


But  neither,  when  you  sport  your  pen,  O  potent  mirth-compeller ! 
Winning  our  hearts  '  in  monthly  parts,'  can  Pickwick  or  Sam  Weller 
Cause  us  to  weep  with  pathos  deep,  or  shake  with  laugh  spasmodical, 
As  when  you  drain  your  copious  vein  for  Bentley's  periodical. 


"  Folks  all  enjoy  your  Parish  Boy —  so  truly  you  depict  him  : 
But  I,  alack!  while  thus  you  track  your  stinted  Poor-law's  victim, 
Must  think  of  some  poor  nearer  home  —  poor  who,  unheeded,  perish, 
By  squires  despoiled,  by  '  patriots'  gulled —  I  mean  the  starving  Irish. 


Yet  there  's  no  dearth  of  Irish  mirth,  which,  to  a  mind  of  feeling, 
Seemeth  to  be  the  Helot's  glee  before  the  Spartan  reeling : 
Such  gloomy  thought  o'ercometh  not  the  glow  of  England's  humor, 
Thrice  happy  isle  !  long  may  the  smile  of  genuine  joy  illume  her ! 


Write  on,  young  sage  !  still  o'er  the  page  pour  forth  the  flood  of  fancy  ; 
Wax  still  more  droll,  wave  o'er  the  soul  Wit's  wand  of  necromancy. 
Behold !  e'en  now  around  your  brow  th'  immortal  laurel  thickens ; 
Yea,  SWIFT  or  STERNE  might  gladly  learn  a  thing  or  two  from  DICKENS. 

VII. 

A  rhyme !  a  rhyme !  from  a  distant  clime  —  a  song  from  the  sunny  South  1 
A  goodly  theme,  so  Boz  but  deem  the  measure  not  uncouth. 
1  Ei&oA.ov  rr)s  yij?  oi 


DICKENS  AND  IRVING.  213 

Would,  for  thy  sake,  that '  PROUT  '  could  make  his  bow  in  fashion  finer, 
'  Partanf*  (from  thee)  '  pour  la  Syrie,'  for  Greece  and  Asia  Minor. 
"  GENOA,  14^  December,  1837." 


DICKENS  AND  IRVING. 

Professor  Felton,  alluding  to  the  death  of  Washington  Irv 
ing,  in  a  speech,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1859,  gave  this 
interesting  reminiscence  of  the  friendship  existing  between 
Dickens  and  Irving  :  — 

"  The  time  when  I  saw  the  most  of  Mr.  Irving  was  in  the 
winter  of  1842,  during  the  visit  of  Mr.  Charles  Dickens  in 
New  York.  I  had  known  this  already  distinguished  writer  in 
Boston  and  Cambridge,  and,  while  passing  some  weeks  with 
my  dear  and  lamented  friend,  Albert  Sumner,  I  renewed  my 
acquaintance  with  Mr.  Dickens,  often  meeting  him  in  the  brill 
iant  literary  society  which  then  made  New  York  a  most  agree 
able  resort.  Halleck,  Bryant,  Washington  Irving,  Davis,  and 
others  scarce  less  attractive  by  their  genius,  wit,  and  social 
graces,  constituted  a  circle  not  to  be  surpassed  anywhere  in 
the  world.  I  passed  much  of  the  time  with  Mr.  Irving  and 
Mr.  Dickens,  and  it  was  delightful  to  witness  the  cordial  in 
tercourse  of  the  young  man,  in  the  flush  and  glory  of  his 
youthful  genius,  and  his  elder  compeer,  then  in  the  assured 
possession  of  immortal  renown.  Dickens  said,  in  his  frank, 
hearty  manner,  that  from  his  childhood  he  had  known  the 
works  of  Irving ;  and  that,  before  he  thought  of  coming  to 
this  country,  he  had  received  a  letter  from  him,  expressing  the 
delight  he  felt  in  reading  the  story  of  '  Little  Nell  ;  '  and  from 
that  day  they  had  shaken  hands  autographically  across  the 
Atlantic." 

After  Professor  Felton's  reminiscences,  it  may  not  be  un 
interesting  to  quote  the  following  extract  from  a  letter  written 
by  Washington  Irving  to  his  niece  (Mrs.  Storrow),  under  date 
May  25,  1841,  in  which  he  mentions  a  letter  he  had  just  re 
ceived  from  Dickens,  in  reply  to  one  from  himself :  — 

"  And  now  comes  the  third  letter  from  that  glorious  fellow, 


214  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Dickens  (Boz),  in  reply  to  the  one  I  wrote,  expressing  my 
heartfelt  delight  with  his  writings,  and  my  yearnings  towards 
himself.  See  how  completely  we  sympathize  in  feeling  :  — 

"  i  There  is  no  man  in  the  world,'  replies  Dickens,  i  who 
could  have  given  me  the  heartfelt  pleasure  you  have  by  your 
kind  note  of  the  I3th  of  last  month.  There  is  no  living  writer, 
and  there  are  very  few  among  the  dead,  whose  approbation  I 
should  feel  so  proud  to  earn  ;  and,  with  everything  you  have 
written  upon  my  shelves,  and  in  my  thoughts,  and  in  my  heart 
of  hearts,  I  may  honestly  and  truly  say  so.  If  you  could  know 
how  earnestly  I  write  this,  you  would  be  glad  to  read  it  —  as  I 
hope  you  will  be,  faintly  guessing  at  the  warmth  of  the  hand  I 
autographically  hold  out  to  you  over  the  broad  Atlantic. 

"  '  I  wish  I  could  find  in  your  welcome  letter  some  hint  of 
an  intention  to  visit  England.  I  can't.  I  have  held  it  at  arm's 
length,  and  taken  a  bird's-eye  view  of  it,  after  reading  it  a  great 
many  times  ;  but  there  is  no  greater  encouragement  in  it,  this 
way,  than  on  a  microscopic  inspection.  I  should  love  to  go  with 
you  —  as  I  have  gone,  God  knows  how  often  —  into  Little 
Britain,  and  Eastcheap,  and  Green  Arbor  Court,  and  West 
minster  Abbey.  I  should  like  to  travel  with  you,  outside  the 
last  of  the  coaches,  down  to  Bracebridge  Hall.  It  would  make 
my  heart  glad  to  compare  notes  with  you  about  that  shabby 
gentleman  in  the  oil-cloth  hat  and  red  nose,  who  sat  in  the 
nine-cornered  back  parlor  of  the  Mason's  Arms  ;  and  about 
Robert  Preston,  and  the  tallow-chandler's  widow,  whose  sit 
ting-room  is  second  nature  to  me  ;  and  about  all  those  delight 
ful  places  and  people  that  I  used  to  talk  about  and  dream  of 
in  the  daytime,  when  a  very  small  and  not-over-particularly- 
taken-care-of  boy.  I  have  a  good  deal  to  say,  too,  about  that 
dashing  Alonzo  de  Ojeda,  that  you  can't  help  being  fonder  of 
than  you  ought  to  be  ;  and  much  to  hear  concerning  Moorish 
legend,  and  poor  unhappy  Boabdil.  Diedrich  Knickerbocker 
I  have  worn  to  death  in  my  pocket,  and  yet  I  should  show  you 
his  mutilated  carcass  with  a  joy  past  all  expression. 

"  '  I  have  been  so  accustomed  to  associate  you  with  my 
pleasantest  and  happiest  thoughts,  and  with  my  leisure  hours, 


DICKENS  AND  IRVING.  215 

that  I  rush  at  once  into  full  confidence  with  you,  and  tall,  as  it 
were  naturally,  and  by  the  very  laws  of  gravity,  into  your  open 
arms.  Questions  come  thronging  to  my  pen  as  to  the  lips  of 
people  who  meet  after  long  hoping  to  do  so.  I  don't  know 
what  to  say  first,  or  what  to  leave  unsaid,  and  am  constantly 
disposed  to  break  off  and  tell  you  again  how  glad  I  am  this 
moment  has  arrived. 

u  *  My  dear  Washington  Irving,  I  cannot  thank  you  enough 
for  your  cordial  and  generous  praise,  or  tell  you  what  deep  and 
lasting  gratification  it  has  given  me.  I  hope  to  have  many 
letters  from  you,  and  to  exchange  a  frequent  correspondence. 
I  send  this  to  say  so.  After  the  first  two  or  three,  I  shall 
settle  down  into  a  connected  style,  and  become  gradually 
rational. 

"  '  You  know  what  the  feeling  is,  after  having  written  a 
letter,  sealed  it,  and  sent  it  off.  I  shall  picture  you  reading 
this,  and  answering  it,  before  it  has  lain  one  night  in  the  post- 
office.  Ten  to  one  that  before  the  fastest  packet  could  reach 
New  York  I  shall  be  writing  again. 

"  '  Do  you  suppose  the  post-office  clerks  care  to  receive 
letters  ?  I  have  my  doubts.  They  get  into  a  dreadful  habit 
of  indifference.  A  postman,  I  imagine,  is  quite  callous.  Con 
ceive  his  delivering  one  to  himself,  without  being  startled  by 
a  preliminary  double  knock  ! '  " 

Irving,  writing  again  to  Mrs.  Storrow,  2Qth  of  October  fol 
lowing,  says  :  — 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  Dickens  is  actually  coming  to  Amer 
ica.  He  has  engaged  passage  for  himself  and  his  wife  in 
the  steam-packet  for  Boston,  for  the  4th  of  January  next.  He 
says  :  '  I  look  forward  to  shaking  hands  with  you,  with  an 
interest  I  cannot  (and  I  would  not  if  I  could)  describe.  You 
can  imagine,  I  dare  say,  something  of  the  feelings  with  which 
I  look  forward  to  being  in  America.  I  can  hardly  believe  I 
am  coming." 

But  to  return  to  Professor  Felton  and  his  recollections  of 
Irving  and  Dickens.  He  continues  :  — 


216  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

"  Great  and  varied  as  was  the  genius  of  Mr.  Irving,  there 
was  one  thing  he  shrank  with  a  comical  terror  from  attempt 
ing,  and  that  was  a  dinner  speech.  A  great  dinner,  however, 
was  to  be  given  to  Mr.  Dickens  in  New  York,  as  one  had 
already  been  given  in  Boston  ;  and  it  was  evident  to  all  that  no 
man  like  Washington  Irving  could  be  thought  of  to  preside. 
With  all  his  dread  of  making  a  speech,  he  was  obliged  to 
obey  the  universal  call,  and  to  accept  the  painful  preeminence. 
I  saw  him  daily  during  the  interval  of  preparation,  either  at 
the  lodgings  of  Dickens,  or  at  dinner,  or  at  evening  parties.  I 
hope  I  showed  no  want  of  sympathy  with  his  forebodings,  but 
I  could  not  help  being  amused  with  his  tragi-comical  distress 
which  the  thought  of  that  approaching  dinner  had  caused  him. 
His  pleasant  humor  mingled  with  the  real  dread,  and  played 
with  the  whimsical  horrors  of  his  own  position  with  an  irre 
sistible  drollery.  Whenever  it  was  alluded  to,  his  invariable 
answer  was,  '  I  shall  certainly  break  down !  '  —  uttered  in  a 
half-melancholy  tone,  the  ludicrous  effect  of  which  it  is  im 
possible  to  describe.  He  was  haunted,  as  if  by  a  nightmare  ; 
and  I  could  only  compare  his  dismay  to  that  of  Mr.  Pickwick, 
who  was  so  alarmed  at  the  prospect  of  leading  about  that 
1  dreadful  horse'  all  day.  At  length  the  long-expected  even 
ing  arrived.  A  company  of  the  most  eminent  persons,  from 
all  the  professions  and  every  walk  of  life,  were  assembled, 
and  Mr.  Irving  took  the  chair.  I  had  gladly  accepted  an  in 
vitation,  making  it,  however,  a  condition  that  I  should  not  be 
called  upon  to  speak  —  a  thing  I  then  dreaded  quite  as  much 
as  Mr.  Irving  himself.  The  direful  compulsions  of  life  have 
since  helped  me  to  overcome,  in  some  measure,  the  post 
prandial  fright.  Under  the  circumstances  — an  invited  guest, 
with  no  impending  speech  —  I  sat  calmly  and  watched  with 
interest  the  imposing  scene.  I  had  the  honor  to  be  placed 
next  but  one  to  Mr.  Irving,  and  the  great  pleasure  of  sharing 
in  his  conversation.  He  had  brought  the  manuscript  of  his 
speech,  and  laid  it  under  his  plate.  '  I  shall  certainly  break 
down,'  he  repeated  over  and  over  again.  At  last  the  moment 
arrived.  Mr.  Irving  rose,  and  was  received  with  deafening 


DICKENS  AND  IRVING.  2 1/ 

and  long-continued  applause,  which  by  no  means  lessened  his 
apprehension.  He  began  in  his  pleasant  voice  ;  got  through 
two  or  three  sentences  pretty  easily,  but  in  the  next  hesitated  ; 
and,  after  one  or  two  attempts  to  go  on,  gave  it  up,  with  a 
graceful  allusion  to  the  tournament,  and  the  troop  of  knights 
all  armed  and  eager  for  the  fray  ;  and  ended  with  the  toast, 
'  Charles  Dickens,  the  guest  of  the  nation.'  '  There  !  '  said 
he,  as  he  resumed  his  seat  under  a  repetition  of  the  applause 
which  had  saluted  his  rising  —  '  there  !  I  told  you  I  should 
break  down,  and  I  've  done  it.' 

"  There  certainly  never  was  a  shorter  after-dinner  speech  ; 
and  I  doubt  if  there  ever  was  a  more  successful  one.  The 
manuscript  seemed  to  be  a  dozen  or  twenty  pages  long,  but 
the  printed  speech  was  not  as  many  lines. 

"  Mr. '  Irving  often  spoke  with  a  good-humored  envy  of  the 
felicity  with  which  Dickens  always  acquitted  himself  on  such 
occasions.'* 

Immediately  after  dinner,  Irving  and  Dickens  started  off 
together  to  Washington,  to  spend  a  few  days,  and  there  took 
leave  of  one  another.  Irving  at  this  time  having  just  received 
his  appointment  as  Minister  to  Spain,  Dickens  wrote  to  him  : 
"  We  passed  through  —  literally  passed  through  —  this  place 
again  to-day.  I  did  not  come  to  see  you,  for  I  really  had  not 
the  heart  to  say  good-by  again,  and  I  felt  more  than  I  can 
tell  you  when  we  shook  hands  last  Wednesday.  You  will  not 
be  at  Baltimore,  I  fear  ?  I  thought  at  the  time,  that  you  only 
said  you  might  be  there,  to  make  our  parting  the  gayer. 

"  Wherever  you  go,  God  bless  you  !  What  pleasure  I  have 
had  in  seeing  and  talking  with  you,  I  will  not  attempt  to  say.  I 
shall  never  forget  it  as  long  as  I  live.  What  would  I  give  if  we 
could  have  a  quiet  walk  together  !  Spain  is  a  lazy  place,  and 
its  climate  an  indolent  one.  But  if  you  have  ever  leisure 
under  its  sunny  skies  to  think  of  a  man  who  loves  you,  and 
holds  communion  with  your  spirit  oftener,  perhaps,  than  any 
other  person  alive  —  leisure  from  listlessness,  I  mean  —  and 
will  write  to  me  in  London,  you  will  give  me  an  inexpressible 
amount  of  pleasure." 


2l8  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

DICKENS  AS  AN  ACTOR 

Dickens's  extreme  fondness  for  theatricals  had  tempted  him, 
as  far  back  as  the  year  1836,  when  "Pickwick"  was  publish 
ing,  to  take  a  part  in  "The  Strange  Gentleman,"  at  St.  James's 
Theatre.  The  amateur  actor  was  not  successful  on  this  occa 
sion,  and  we  believe  no  further  attempt — except  drawing- 
room  performances  —  was  made  until  the  autumn  of  1845, 
when  he  made  another  appearance  on  the  stage  at  the  St. 
James's  Theatre,  on  the  I9th  of  September,  the  play  selected 
being  Ben  Jonson's  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humor  ;  "  the  va 
rious  parts  of  the  amateur  performance  being  taken  by  literary 
and  artistic  celebrities.  The  triumph  achieved  was  immense. 
They  were  induced  to  repeat  the  performance  for  a  Chanty,  at 
the  same  theatre,  on  the  I5th  of  November  following,  the  only 
alteration  being  the  substitution  of  a  Mr.  Eaton  for  Mr. 
A'Beckett  as  William.  The  play-bill  itself  is  a  curiosity : 
A  Strictly  Private  Amateur  Performance. 

AT  THE  ST.  JAMES'S  THEATRE 

(By  favor  of  Mr.  Mitchell).     Will  be  performed  Ben.  Jonson's  Comedy  of 
EVERY  MAN  IN  HIS  HUMOR. 

Knowell         HENRY  MAYHEW. 

Edward  Knowell FREDERICK  DICKENS. 

Brainworm       MARK  LEMON. 

George  Downright DUDLEY  COSTELLO. 

Wellbred       .     .  GEORGE  CATTEKMOLE 

Kitely        JOHN  FORSTER. 

Captain  Bobadil CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Master  Stephen  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

Master  Mathew JOHN  LEECH 

Thomas  Cash     .          .     .          AUGUSTUS  DICKENS. 

Oliver  Cob         PERCIVAL  LEIGH. 

Justice  Clement FRANK  STONE. 

Roger  Formal        MR.  EVANS. 

William        W.  EATON. 

James W.  B.  JERROLD. 

Dame  Kitely Miss  FORTESQUB. 

Mistress  Bridget Miss  HINTON. 

Tib       • Miss  BEW. 


DICKENS  AS  A   JOURNALIST.  2IQ 

To  conclude  with  a  Farce,  in  One  Act  called 
TWO  O'CLOCK  IN  THE  MORNING. 

CHARACTERS : 

Mr.  Snobbington MK.  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

TJte  Stranger MR.  MARK  LEMON. 

Previous  to  the  Play  the  Overture  to  "  William  Tell."  Previous  to  the  Farce,  the 
Overture  to  "  La  Gazza  Ladra." 

His  Royal  Highness  Prince  Albert  has  been  pleased  to  express  his  intention  to 
honor  the  performance  with  his  presence. 

Ben  Jonson  as  an  acting  dramatist,  has  almost  disappeared 
from  the  stage  he  so  long  adorned,  and  probably,  no  per 
formance  of  his  best  comedy  was  ever  more  successful  than 
the  above.  Dickens  made  such  an  admirable  Captain  Boba- 
dil,  that  Leslie,  the  Royal  Academician,  took  a  most  character 
istic  portrait  of  him  in  that  character.  The  moment  selected 
is  when  the  Captain  shouts  out  — 

'  A  gentleman  !  odds  so,  I  am  not  within." 

Act  i.,  Scene  3. 

DICKENS  AS  A  JOURNALIST. 

The  idea  was  well  taken  up.  Money  was  freely  spent  by 
the  various  shareholders,  and  many  advertisements  told  the 
public  that  a  newspaper,  which  should  supply  everything  in 
the  first  style  of  newspaper  talent,  would  be  published  at  the 
price  of  twopence-halfpenny.  The  name  chosen  was  the 
"  Daily  News,"  and  Mr.  Dickens  was  widely  advertised  as 
"the  head  of  the  literary  department."  Expectation  was 
raised  to  a  high  pitch  by  this  announcement ;  and  in  1846,  on 
the  2 ist  of  January,  the  first  number  appeared.  The  new 
journal,  however,  did  not  prove  so  successful  as  was  expected. 
The  staffs  of  other  papers  had  been  long  organized,  their  ex 
penses  —  of  course  immense  —  were  well  and  judiciously  con 
trolled,  and  the  arrangements  complete.  All  these  things 
were  new  to  the  "  Daily  News,"  and  the  expenses  entered  into 
did  not  render  it  possible,  with  the  circulation  it  had  then 
reached,  to  sell  the  paper  at  the  original  price  ;  and  it  was 
shortly  after  raised  to  threepence,  and  finally  to  the  same  price 
as  the  "  Times." 


220  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Very  recently,  and  only  a  few  days  after  the  death  of  the 
great  novelist,  the  paper  here  alluded  to  gave  this  account  of 
his  connection  with  the  journal :  — 

"  Some  of  our  readers  may  not  be  aware  that  the  '  Pictures 
from  Italy,'  which  are  now  included  in  all  editions  of  Charles 
Dickens's  works,  were  originally  contributed  to  this  newspa 
per,  and  that  its  early  numbers  were  brought  out  under  his 
editorship.  In  the  first  number  of  this  journal,  in  the  '  Daily 
News'  of  January  21,  1846,  appeared  No.  I  of  ' Travelling  Let 
ters,  written  on  the  Road,  by  Charles  Dickens.'  In  the  *  Daily 
News '  of  February  14  of  the  same  year,  Mr.  Dickens  wrote 
the  following  verses  —  which  will  be  new  to  many — elicited 
by  a  speech  at  one  of  the  night  meetings  of  the  wives  of  the 
agricultural  laborers  in  Wiltshire,  held  to  petition  for  free- 
trade  :  — 

THE  HYMN  OF  THE  WILTSHIRE  LABORERS. 

"  Don't  you  all  think  that  we  have  a  great  need  to  cry  to  our  God  to  put  it  in  the 
hearts  of  our  greaseous  Queen  and  her  members  of  Parlerment  to  grant  us  free 
bread  ! "  —  LUCY  SIMPKINS,  at  Brim  Hill. 

O  God,  who  by  Thy  Prophet's  hand 

Didst  smite  the  rocky  brake, 
Whence  water  came  at  Thy  command, 

Thy  people's  thirst  to  slake : 
Strike,  now,  upon  this  granite  wall, 

Stern,  obdurate,  and  high  ; 
And  let  some  drops  of  pity  fall 

For  us  who  starve  and  die ! 

The  God,  who  took  a  little  child 

And  set  him  in  the  midst, 
And  promised  him  his  mercy  mild, 

As,  by  Thy  Son,  Thou  didst : 
Look  down  upon  our  children  dear, 

So  gaunt,  so  cold,  so  spare, 
And  let  their  images  appear 

Where  Lords  and  Gentry  are  ' 

O  God,  teach  them  to  feel  how  we, 

When  our  poor  infants  droop, 
Are  weakened  in  our  trust  in  Thee, 

And  how  our  spirits  stoop : 


DICKENS  AS  A   JOUR ATA LIST.  221 

For,  in  Thy  rest,  so  bright  and  fair, 

All  tears  and  sorrows  sleep ; 
And  their  young  looks,  so  full  of  care, 

Would  make  Thine  angels  weep  ! 

The  God,  who  with  His  finger  drew 

The  Judgment  coming  on, 
Write  for  these  men,  what  must  ensue, 

Ere  many  years  be  gone ! 
O  God,  whose  bow  is  in  the  sky, 

Let  them  not  brave  and  dare, 
Until  they  look  (too  late)  on  high 

And  see  an  Arrow  there  ! 

O  God,  remind  them,  in  the  bread 

They  break  upon  the  knee, 
These  sacred  words  may  yet  be  read, 

"  In  memory  of  Me!  " 
O  God,  remind  them  of  His  sweet 

Compassion  for  the  poor, 
And  how  He  gave  them  Bread  to  eat, 

And  went  from  door  to  door. 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 

"  There  is  the  true  ring  in  these  lines.  They  have  the  note 
which  Dickens  sounded  consistently  through  life  of  right 
against  might ;  the  note  which  found  expression  in  the  Anti- 
Corn  Law  agitation,  in  the  protests  against  workhouse  enormi 
ties,  in  the  raid  against  those  eccentricities  in  legislation 
which  are  anomalies  to  the  rich  and  bitter  hardships  to  the 
poor.  Let  the  reader  remark  how  consistently  the  weekly 
periodicals  which  Mr.  Dickens  has  guided  have  taken  this 
side,  and  how  the  many  pens  employed  on  them  have  taken 
this  side  whenever  political  or  social  subjects  have  been  dis 
cussed,  and  he  will  understand  that  the  author  was  not  a  mere 
jester  and  story-teller,  but  a  true  philanthropist  and  re 
former." 

Dickens's  friends  very  soon  saw  that  he  had  taken  a  false 
step.  The  duties  of  a  daily  political  paper  were  not  suitable 
to  him,  and  before  many  months  he  relinquished  the  editor 
ship,  and  retired  from  participation  in  the  "  Daily  News  "  — 
but  not,  it  is  understood,  without  a  considerable  loss  in  money. 
His  place  was  then  filled  by  Mr.  John  Forster,  the  able  editor 


22 2  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

of  the  "  Examiner,"  and  friend  —  and  at  that  time  the  cham 
pion  —  of  Mr.  Macready. 

DICKENS  AND  THACKERAY. 

On  the  1st  of  February,  1847,  Mr.  Thackeray  had  issued  the 
first  monthly  portion  of  "  Vanity  Fair,"  in  the  yellow  wrapper 
which  served  to  distinguish  it  from  Mr.  Dickens's  stories,  and, 
after  some  twelve  months  had  passed,  critics  began  to  speak 
of  the  work  in  terms  of  approbation.  The  "  Edinburgh  Re 
view,"  criticising  it  in  January,  1848,  says  :  "  The  great  charm 
of  this  work  is  its  entire  freedom  from  mannerism  and  affecta 
tion  both  in  style  and  sentiment His  pathos  (though 

not  so  deep  as  Mr.  Dickens's)  is  exquisite  ;  the  more  so,  per 
haps,  because  he  seems  to  struggle  against  it,  and  to  be  half 
ashamed  of  being  caught  in  the  melting  mood ;  but  the  attempt 
to  be  caustic,  satirical,  ironical,  or  philosophical  on  such 
occasions  is  uniformly  vain  ;  and  again  and  again  have  we 
found  reason  to  admire  how  an  originally  fine  and  kind  nature 
remains  essentially  free  from  worldliness,  and,  in  the  highest 
pride  of  intellect,  pays  homage  to  the  heart." 

From  this  time  forward  a  friendly  rivalry  ensued  between 
the  two  representatives  of  the  two  schools  of  English  fiction. 
We  say  "rivalry,"  but  it  never  could  have  existed  from 
Dickens's  side  ;  for,  when  "  Vanity  Fair "  was  at  its  best, 
finding  six  thousand  purchasers  a  month,  Dickens  was  taking 
the  shillings  from  thirty  to  forty  thousand  readers  ;  but  the 
gossips  of  society  have  always  asserted  that  there  was  a 
rivalry,  and  made  comparisons  so  very  frequently  between  the 
two  great  men,  that  we  incidentally  allude  to  it  here.  More 
than  once  has  Thackeray  said  to  the  present  writer  (or  words 
very  similar)  :  "  Ah  !  they  talk  to  me  of  popularity,  with  a  sale 
of  little  more  than  one  half  of  10,000  !  Why,  look  at  that 
lucky  fellow  Dickens,  with  Heaven  knows  how  many  readers, 
and  certainly  not  less  than  30,000  buyers  !  "  But  the  fact  is 
easily  explained  —  only  cultivated  readers  enjoy  Thackeray, 
whereas  both  cultivated  and  uncultivated  read  Dickens  with 
delight. 


y.    YOUNG   ON  DICKENS  AND    THACKERAY.     22$ 

JULIAN  YOUNG  ON  DICKENS  AND  THACKERAY. 

Last  night  I  happened  casually  to  mention  to  Miss  Coutts 
and  Mrs.  Brown  that  I  had  never  seen  Charles  Dickens. 
Although  Miss  Coutts  had  a  large  party  to  entertain,  with  that 
amiable  consideration  for  her  friends  which  belongs  to  her, 
she  stole  into  an  adjoining  room  and  dispatched  a  messenger 
to  him  with  a  note  inviting  him  to  lunch  next  day.  Before  we 
had  retired  to  bed  an  answer  had  been  received  to  say  he 
would  gladly  come. 

I  am  delighted  to  have  eaten,  drunk,  and  chatted  with  "  Boz." 
I  have  so  often  found  the  Brobdignagians  of  my  fancy  dwindle 
into  Lilliputians  when  I  have  been  admitted  to  familiar  inter 
course  with  them,  that,  considering  my  unqualified  admiration 
of  "  Boz's  "  writings,  and  the  magnitude  of  my  expectations,  it 
is  something  to  say  that  I  am  not  in  the  least  disappointed 
with  him.  I  longed  to  tell  him  of  the  lifelong  obligations  he 
has  laid  me  under  ;  for  there  was  a  period  in  my  life  when 
sickness  and  sorrow,  and  their  attendant  handmaid  anxiety, 
were  constant  inmates  in  my  home,  and  in  those  sad  days  we 
used  to  look  out  for  the  post-bag  which  was  to  bring  us  the 
last  number  of  "  Nickleby,"  or  "  Chuzzlewit,"  or  "  Dombey," 
with  all  the  eagerness  with  which  an  invalid  listens  for  the 
doctor's  footstep  on  the  stair.  No  drug,  no  stimulant,  ever 
wrought  the  wondrous  effects  that  the  sight  of  the  green 
covers  of  each  number  did  on  our  poor  patient.  At  their 
advent,  grief  and  pain  would  flee  away  ;  and,  in  their  stead, 
pleasant  tears,  and  "  laughter,  holding  both  his  sides,"  would 
take  their  place.  How  we  used  to  dread  coming  to  the  close 
of  a  number.  What  devices  we  had  recourse  to  for  spinning 
it  out.  How,  like  greedy  children  smacking  their  lips  with  the 
keen  sense  of  enjoyment  over  some  dainty,  would  we  linger 
over  every  racy  morsel  of  humor,  roll  it  over  our  tongues,  and 
repeat  it  to  each  other  for  the  sake  of  protracting  our  intel 
lectual  feast  as  long  as  possible. 

I  hate  to  hear  invidious  comparisons  made  between  the 
merits  of  Dickens  and  of  Thackeray.  Each  has  his  excel- 


224  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

lencies,  and  neither  trenches  on  the  domain  of  the  other.  For 
though  they  are  both  students  of  human  nature,  they  approach 
her  from  different  sides.  Thackeray  writes  in  pure  and 
idiomatic  English  ;  and  he  has  a  deep  insight  into  the  foibles 
of  his  kind.  But,  though  personally  he  has  made  many 
staunch  friends,  and  all  who  know  him  love  him  well,  yet  he 
certainly  does  not  take  as  genial  or  as  generous  a  view  of  men 
and  women  as  Dickens.  He  sees  men  and  manners  with  the 
jaundiced  eye  of  a  pessimist ;  whereas  his  great  competitor 
sees  "  good  in  everything,"  and  has  a  heart  boiling  over  with 
good-will  to  all  mankind.  None  so  poor  but  he  can  do  him 
reverence  ;  none  so  depraved  in  whom  he  cannot  detect  some 
redeeming  quality.  Thackeray  has  an  intimate  knowledge  of 
the  hollowness,  artificiality,  and  waywardness  of  fashionable 
life  ;  and,  from  out  the  depths  of  his  own  experience,  con 
structs  imaginary  lay  figures,  which  he  considers  as  typical 
representatives  of  a  class.  But  Dickens's  portraits,  however 
antic  they  may  seem,  are  yet  drawn  from  real  flesh  and  blood. 
Thackeray's  picture  gallery  is  composed  of  recollections  of 
men  and  women  he  has  met  with  in  promiscuous  society. 
Dickens's  portraits  are  studies  from  the  life  of  those  whom  he 
has  not  met  with  in  Rotten  Row,  or  rubbed  against  in  the 
drawing-room,  but  whom  he  has  fallen  in  with  in  the  by-ways 
of  the  world,  and  who  have  attracted  his  observation  by  their 
individuality.  The  characters  in  Dickens's  writings  which 
have  been  most  severely  criticised  as  exaggerated  or  distorted, 
are  actual  transcripts  of  bond  Jide  originals.  Why,  who  that 
knew  her,  could  fail  to  recognize  the  original  of  Mrs.  Leo 
Hunter  ?  In  younger  days  I  was  at  one  or  two  of  her  parties 
in  Portland  Place.  Who,  that  is  familiar  with  Manchester, 
does  not  know  the  Cheeryble  brothers  ?  Who,  that  is  old 
enough  to  remember  a  certain  inn  in  Holborn  in  coaching 
days,  can  forget  the  original  of  Sam  Weller  ?  The  original  of 
Mrs.  Gamp  is  not  so  generally  known,  but  I  know  well  the 
ladies  who  first  introduced  her  to  Dickens's  notice. 

Dickens,  of  course,  writes  for  his  livelihood  ;  but  it  is  not 
exclusively  for  profit,  or  even  for  fame  :  he  generally  has  a 


y.    YOUNG   ON  DICKENS  AND    THACKERAY.     22$ 

moral  purpose  in  view.  He  never  panders  to  popular  preju 
dices,  but  boldly  rebukes  vice  in  whatever  rank  of  life  he  finds 
it ;  and  takes  a  profound,  and  yet  a  practical,  interest  in  the 
cause  of  the  ignorant,  the  oppressed,  and  the  debased. 

While  I  write,  I  am  reminded  of  an  anecdote  which  shows 
in  a  very  strong  light  the  extraordinary  sway  he  exercises  over 
the  hearts  even  of  those  "  unused  to  the  melting  mood."  Mrs. 
Henry  Siddons,  a  neighbor  and  intimate  friend  of  the  late 
Lord  Jeffery,  who  had  free  license  to  enter  his  house  at  all 
hours  unannounced,  and  come  and  go  as  she  listed,  opened  his 
library  door  one  day  very  gently  to  look  if  he  was  there,  and 
saw  enough  at  a  glance  to  convince  her  that  her  visit  was  ill- 
timed.  The  hard  critic  of  "  The  Edinburgh  "  was  sitting  in 
his  chair,  with  his  head  on  the  table,  in  deep  grief.  As  Mrs. 
Siddons  was  delicately  retiring,  in  the  hope  that  her  entrance 
had  been  unnoticed,  Jeffery  raised  his  head,  and  kindly  beck 
oned  her  back.  Perceiving  that  his  cheek  was  flushed  and 
his  eyes  suffused  with  tears,  she  apologized  for  her  intrusion, 
and  begged  permission  to  withdraw.  When  he  found  that  she 
was  seriously  intending  to  leave  him,  he  rose  from  his  chair, 
took  her  by  both  hands,  and  led  her  to  a  seat. 

Lord  Jeffery  (log.).  "  Don't  go,  my  dear  friend.  I  shall  be 
right  again  in  another  minute." 

Mrs.  H.  Siddons.  "  I  had  no  idea  that  you  had  had  any  bad 
news  or  cause  for  grief,  or  I  would  not  have  come.  Is  any 
one  dead  ? " 

Lord  Jeffery.  "  Yes,  indeed.  I  'm  a  great  goose  to  have 
given  way  so  ;  but  I  could  not  help  it.  You  '11  be  sorry  to  hear 
that  little  Nelly,  Boz's  little  Nelly,  is  dead." 

The  fact  was,  Jeffery  had  just  received  the  last  number  then 
out  of  "  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop,"  and  had  been  thoroughly 
overcome  by  its  pathos. 

Dickens  began  his  career  when  a  youth  of  nineteen,  under 
his  uncle,  John  Henry  Barrow,  who  started  "  The  Mirror  of 
Parliament,"  in  opposition  to  "  Hansard."  Hansard  always 
compiled  his  reports  from  the  morning  newspapers,  whereas 
Barrow  engaged  a  special  staff  of  able  reporters,  sending  each 


226  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

important  oration  in  proof  to  its  speaker  for  correction. 
When  Stanley  fulminated  his  Philippic  against  O'Connell,  it 
fell  to  young  Dickens's  turn  to  report  the  last  third  of  it. 
The  proof  of  the  whole  speech  was  forwarded  to  Mr.  Stanley. 
He  returned  it  to  Barrow,  with  the  remark,  that  the  first  two 
thirds  were  so  badly  reported  as  to  be  unintelligible  ;  but  that, 
if  the  gentleman  who  had  so  admirably  reported  the  last  third 
of  his  speech  could  be  sent  to  him,  he  would  speak  the  rest  of 
it  to  him  alone.  Accordingly,  at  an  hour  appointed,  young 
Dickens  made  his  appearance  at  Mr.  Stanley's,  note-book  in 
hand.  It  was  with  evident  hesitation  that  the  servant  ushered 
him  into  the  library,  the  tables  of  which  were  covered  with 
newspapers.  Presently  the  master  of  the  house  appeared,  eyed 
the  youth  suspiciously,  and  said,  "  I  beg  pardon,  but  I  had 
hoped  to  see  the  gentleman  who  had  reported  part  of  my 
speech,"  etc.  "  /  am  that  gentleman,"  retorted  Dickens, 
turning  red  in  the  face,  and  feeling  his  dignity  somewhat 
offended.  "  Oh,  indeed,"  replied  Mr.  Stanley,  pushing  about 
the  papers,  and  turning  his  back  to  conceal  an  involuntary 
smile.  It  was  not  long  before  Sir  James  Graham  stepped  in, 
and  then  Stanley  began  his  speech.  At  first  he  stood  still, 
addressing  one  of  the  wiadow  curtains  as  "  Mr.  Speaker." 
Then  he  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  gesticulating  and  de 
claiming  with  all  the  fire  and  force  he  had  shown  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  Graham,  with  the  newspaper  before  him  fol 
lowed,  and  occasionally  checked  him,  when  he  had  forgotten 
some  trifling  point,  or  had  transposed  one  proposition  in  the 
place  of  another. 

When  the  entire  speech  had  been  fully  reported,  Stanley 
returned  the  revise  with  Dickens's  corrected  edition  of  the 
parts  of  the  speech  which  had  been  bungled,  with  a  note  to 
Barrow  highly  complimentary  to  the  stripling  reporter,  and 
with  a  shadowy  prediction  of  a  great  career  for  him  in  the 
future. 

Dickens  had  totally  forgotten  this  incident,  until,  many 
years  after,  he  was  invited  to  dine  with  Lord  Derby  for  the 
first  time. '  Having  been  shown  with  the  other  guests  before 


"NOT  SO  BAD  AS    WE  SEEM."  22/ 

dinner  into  the  library,  he  felt  a  strange  consciousness  of 
having  been  in  it  before,  which  he  could  not  account  for.  He 
was  in  a  state  of  bewilderment  about  it  all  dinner-time ;  for  he 
could  not  recall  the  circumstance  which  brought  the  reporting 
adventure  to  his  mind.  But,  at  all  events,  something  did,  and 
he  reminded  his  host  of  it.  Lord  Derby  was  delighted  to 
recognize  in  his  new  friend  his  boy-reporter,  and  told  the  story 
to  a  select  few,  who,  with  Dickens,  had  stayed  after  the  rest 
of  the  company  had  departed. 

"Nor  so  BAD  AS  WE  SEEM." 

In  June,  1851,  a  project  —  which,  it  is  said,  Mr.  Dickens 
had  long  had  in  contemplation  —  was  brought  forward  by  Sir 
Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  namely,  the  founding  of  a  Guild  of 
Literature  and  Art ;  in  reality,  a  provident  fund  and  benefit 
society  for  unfortunate  literary  men  and  artists.  From  it  the 
proper  persons  would  receive  continual  or  occasional  relief,  as 
the  case  might  be  ;  but  the  leading  feature  was  the  "  Provi 
dent  Fund,"  to  be  composed  of  moneys  deposited  by  the  au 
thors  themselves,  when  they  were  in  a  position  to  be  able  to 
lay  by  something.  Dickens  and  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton 
(since  a  peer)  were  the  most  active  promoters.  The  precise 
plan  of  the  "  Guild  "  was  discussed  at  Lord  Lytton's  seat,  at 
Knebworth,  the  November  previously.  There  had  been  three 
amateur  performances,  by  Dickens  and  others,  of  "  Every 
Man  in  his  Humor,"  for  the  gratification  of  his  lordship  and 
his  neighboring  friends,  when  it  was  arranged  that  his  lord 
ship  should  write  a  comedy,  and  Dickens  and  Mark  Lemon  a 
farce.  The  comedy  was  entitled  "  Not  so  Bad  as  we  Seem," 
and  the  farce  bore  the  name  of  "  Mrs.  Nightingale's  Diary." 
The  first  performance  took  place  at  Devonshire  House,  before 
the  Queen,  the  Prince  Consort,  and  the  court  circles  ;  and 
afterwards  at  the  Hanover  Square  Rooms,  and  at  many  of  the 
large  provincial  towns  (Bath,  Bristol,  etc.).  At  Devonshire 
House,  not  the  least  incident  occurred  to  shade  what  a  late 
Drury  Lane  manager  might,  in  his  own  TtofV'fii , JPY  have 
called  "  the  blaze  of  triumph."  From  the  first  moment  that 

TBT»I 


228  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

the  scheme  was  made  known  to  her  Majesty  and  Prince  Al 
bert,  both  the  Queen  and  the  Prince  manifested  the  liveliest 
interest  in  its  success.  The  Duke  of  Devonshire,  with  a  mu 
nificence  that  made  the  name  of  his  Grace  a  proverb  for  liber 
ality,  dedicated  his  mansion  to  the  cause  of  Literature  and 
Art,  and  his  house  w\s  for  many  days  in  possession  of  the 
amateurs. 

The  play  began  at  half-past  nine,  Her  Majesty,  Prince  Al 
bert,  and  the  royal  family  occupying  a  box  erected  for  the  oc 
casion.  The  seats  were  filled  by  the  most  illustrious  for  rank 
and  genius.  There  was  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland  ;  there 
was  the  "  Iron  Duke,"  in  his  best  temper  ;  there  was  Ma- 
caulay,  Chevalier  Bunsen,  Van  der  Weyer  —  themselves  au 
thors  ;  in  fact,  all  the  highest  representatives  of  the  rank, 
beauty,  and  genius  of  England,  and  her  foreign  ambassadors. 

The  list  of  the  performers,  and  the  parts  taken  by  them,  is 
a  curiosity  in  its  way  :  — 


to   the] 

The  Duke  of  Middlesex,  !      son    of    James    II.,  I      Mr.  FRANK  STONE. 

lled  the  f 


MEN. 

I  Peers  attached 

_.,  •,  !      son    of    James    a.,  i 

The  Earl  of  Loftus,         [      commonly  called  the  f     Mr.  DUDLEY  COSTELLO. 

J      First  Pretender,     .     J 
Lord  Wilmot,  a  young  man  at  the  head  of  the  ) 

mode  more   than   a  century   ago,  son   to  Lord  >      Mr.  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Loftus, ) 

Mr.  Shadoiuly  Softhead,  a  young  gentleman  from  )      M     T^_IT_.  AC  T-^OT  ™ 

the  city,  friend  and  double  to  Lord  Wilmot,    .      f 

Mr.  Hardman,  a  rising  member  of  Parliament,  )      M      T          Fr^c-r™ 
and  adherent  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole,      .     .     .      f 

gentleman   of  good  J      Mr   MARK  LEMQN 


Mr.   Goodenough   Easy,   in   business,  highly  re-  I      Mr   F    W    TOPHAM 

spectable,  and  a  friend  to  Sir  Geoffrey,  .     .     .      f 

Lord  le  Trimmer,    )  •&  r  wm    r^^f  )      Mr.  PETER  CUNNINGHAM. 

Sir  Thomas  Timid,\  FlS"S™  Mr   WESTLAND  MARSTON. 

use  ' 


™ 

Colonel  Flint,  )  use>  '     )      Mr.  R.  H.  HORNR. 

Mr.  Jacob  Tonson,  a  bookseller,  .......  Mr.  CHARLES  KNIGHT. 

Smart,  valet  to  Lord  Wilmot,   ........  Mr.  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

Hodge,  servant  to  Sir  Geoffrey  Thornside,  ....  Mr.  JOHN  TENNIEL. 

Paddy  O"1  Sullivan,  Mr.  Fallen's  landlord,  ....  Mr.  ROBERT  BELL. 

^pnlfteerf  F?len\  ^  Street,  author  and^pam-  j  Mr<  AuGUSTUS  EGG>  A<R.A. 

Lord  Strongbow,  Sir  John  Bruin,  Coffee-House  Loungers,  Drawers, 
Newsmen,  Watchmen,  etc.,  etc. 


"  NOT  SO  BAD  AS    WE  SEEM."  22Q 

WOMEN. 

Lucy,  daughter  to  Sir  Geoffrey  Thornside,  .     .     .     .     Mrs.  COMPTON. 

Barbara,  daughter  to  Mr.  Easy, Miss  ELLEN  CHAPLIN. 

The  Silent  Lady  of  De adman* s  Lane, 

The  royal  party  paid  the  deepest  attention  to  the  progress 
of  the  play,  Her  Majesty  frequently  leading  the  applause. 
And  when  the  curtain  fell  upon  the  three  hours'  triumph,  Her 
Majesty  rose  in  her  box,  and,  by  the  most  cordial  demonstra 
tion  of  approval,  "  commanded  "  (for  such  may  be  the  word) 
the  reappearance  of  all  the  actors,  again  to  receive  the  royal 
approval  of  their  efforts.  Nor  did  the  Queen  and  Prince 
merely  bestow  applause.  Her  Majesty  took  seventeen  places 
for  herself,  visitors,  and  suite  ;  and,  further,  as  a  joint  contri 
bution  of  herself  and  the  Prince,  headed  the  list  of  subscrip 
tions  with  ^150,  making  the  sum  total  of  ^225.  It  is  said 
that  the  receipts  of  the  night  exceeded  ,£1,000.  Another  rep 
resentation  at  Devonshire  House  took  place  on  the  following 
Tuesday,  the  admission  being  £2.  The  farce  written  for  the 
occasion,  called  "  Mrs.  Nightingale's  Diary,"  was  performed, 
and  Charles  Dickens  and  Mark  Lemon  sustained  the  principal 
characters.  A  critic  at  the  time  remarked  :  "  Both  these 
gentlemen  are  admirable  actors.  It  is  by  no  means  amateur 
playing  with  them.  Dickens  seizes  the  strong  points  of  a 
character,  bringing  them  out  as  effectively  upon  the  stage  as 
his  pen  undyingly  marks  them  upon  paper.  Lemon  has  all 
the  ease  of  a  finished  performer,  with  a  capital  relish  for  com 
edy  and  broad  farce." 

For  the  representations  in  the  provinces  a  portable  theatre 
was  constructed,  Messrs.  Clarkson  Stanfield,  David  Roberts, 
Grieve,  and  others,  painting  the  scenes,  etc.,  which  are  said  to 
have  been  very  beautiful.  The  funds  raised  were  unfortu 
nately,  by  a  flaw  in  the  act  of  Parliament,  unintentionally  tied 
up  for  a  number  of  years  ;  but  on  Saturday,  July  29,  1865, 
the  surviving  members  of  the  Fund  proceeded  to  the  neigh 
borhood  of  Stevenage,  near  the  magnificent  seat  of  the  Presi 
dent,  Lord  Lytton,  to  inspect  three  houses  built  in  the  Gothic 


23O  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

style  on  the  ground  given  by  him  for  that  purpose.  An  en 
terprising  publican  in  the  vicinity  had  just  previously  opened 
his  establishment,  which  bore  the  very  appropriate  sign  of 
"  Our  Mutual  Friend  "  —  Mr.  Dickens's  then  latest  work  — 
and  caused  considerable  merriment. 

DICKENS  AND  LEIGH  HUNT. 

One  of  the  characters  in  "  Bleak  House,"  Harold  Skimpole, 
an  incarnation  of  a  canting  and  hypocritical  scoundrel,  whom 
one  longs  to  kick,  was  fastened  upon  as  the  impersonation  of 
that  kind  and  genial  writer,  the  late  Leigh  Hunt.  Those  who 
had  the  good  fortune  to  know  him  personally  indignantly 
refuted  the  calumny,  and,  like  other  unfounded  rumors,  the 
matter  died  out,  until,  after  his  death,  the  idea  was  again 
bruited  forth. 

Mr.  Thornton  Hunt  (his  eldest  son),  in  preparing  a  new  edi-  • 
tion  of  his  father's  famous  "  Autobiography,"  prefixed  an  in 
troductory  chapter,  in  which  the  following  passages  occur  :  — 

"  His  animation,  his  sympathy  with  what  was  gay  and 
pleasurable,  his  avowed  doctrine  of  cultivating  cheerfulness, 
were  manifest  on  the  surface,  and  could  be  appreciated  by 
those  who  knew  him  in  society,  most  probably  even  exagger 
ated  as  salient  traits,  on  which  he  himself  insisted  with  a  sort 
of  gay  and  ostentatious  willfulness. 

"  The  anxiety  to  recognize  the  right  of  others,  the  tendency 
to  '  refine,'  which  was  noted  by  an  early  school  companion, 
and  the  propensity  to  elaborate  every  thought,  made  him, 
along  with  the  direct  argument  by  which  he  sustained  his  own 
conviction,  recognize  and  almost  admit  all  that  might  be  said 
on  the  opposite  side. 

"It  is  most  desirable  that  his  qualities  should  be  known 
as  they  were  ;  for  such  deficiencies  as  he  had  are  the  honest 
explanation  of  his  mistakes  ;  while,  as  the  reader  may  see 
from  his  writing  and  his  conduct,  they  are  not,  as  the  faults  of 
which  he  was  accused  would  be,  incompatible  with  the  noblest 
faculties  both  of  head  and  heart.  To  know  Leigh  Hunt  as  he 
was,  was  to  hold  him  in  reverence  and  love." 


DICKENS  AND   LEIGH  HUNT.  23! 

Dickens  immediately,  in  a  number  of  "  All  the  Year 
Round,"  under  the  head  of  "  Leigh  Hunt  —  a  Remonstrance," 
made  this  statement :  — 

u  Four  or  five  years  ago,  the  writer  of  these  lines  was  much 
pained  by  accidentally  encountering  a  printed  statement,  '  that 
Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  was  the  original  of  Harold  Skimpole  in  "  Bleak 
House.'7 '  The  writer  of  these  lines  is  the  author  of  that 
book.  The  statement  came  from  America.  It  is  no  disre 
spect  to  that  country,  in  which  the  writer  has,  perhaps,  as 
many  friends  and  as  true  an  interest  as  any  man  that  lives, 
good-humoredly  to  state  the  fact  that  he  has  now  and  then 
been  the  subject  of  paragraphs  in  transatlantic  newspapers 
more  surprisingly  destitute  of  all  foundation  in  truth  than  the 
wildest  delusions  of  the  wildest  lunatics.  For  reasons  born  of 
this  experience,  he  let  the  thing  go  by. 

"  But  since  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt's  death  the  statement  has  been 
revived  in  England.  The  delicacy  and  generosity  evinced  in 
its  revival  are  for  the  rather  late  consideration  of  its  revivers. 
The  fact  is  this  :  Exactly  those  graces  and  charms  of  manner 
which  are  remembered  in  the  words  we  have  quoted  were  re 
membered  by  the  author  of  the  work  of  fiction  in  question 
when  he  drew  the  character  in  question.  Above  all  other 
things,  that  '  sort  of  gay  and  ostentatious  willfulness '  in  the 
humoring  of  a  subject,  which  had  many  times  delighted  him, 
and  impressed  him  as  being  unspeakably  whimsical  and  at 
tractive,  was  the  airy  quality  he  wanted  for  the  man  he  in 
vented.  Partly  for  this  reason,  and  partly  (he  has  since  often 
grieved  to  think)  for  the  pleasure  it  afforded  him  to  find  that 
delightful  manner  reproducing  itself  under  his  hand,  he 
yielded  to  the  temptation  of  too  often  making  the  character 
speak  like  his  old  friend.  He  no  more  thought,  God  forgive 
him  !  that  the  admired  original  would  ever  be  charged  with 
the  imaginary  vices  of  the  fictitious  creature  than  he  has  him 
self  ever  thought  of  charging  the  blood  of  Desdemona  and 
Othello  on  the  innocent  Academy  model  who  sat  for  lago's 
leg  in  the  picture.  Even  as  to  the  mere  occasional  manner, 


232  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

he  meant  to  be  so  cautious  and  conscientious  that  he  privately 
referred  the  proof-sheets  of  the  first  number  of  that  book  to 
two  intimate  literary  friends  of  Leigh  Hunt  (both  still  living), 
and  altered  the  whole  of  that  part  of  the  text  on  their  discov 
ering  too  strong  a  resemblance  to  his  '  way.' 

"  He  cannot  see  the  son  lay  this  wreath  on  the  father's 
tomb,  and  leave  him  to  the  possibility  of  ever  thinking  that  the 
present  words  might  have  righted  the  father's  memory  and 
were  left  unwritten.  He  cannot  know  that  his  own  son  may 
have  to  explain  his  father  when  folly  or  malice  can  wound  his 
heart  no  more,  and  leave  this  task  undone." 

Mr.  Thornton  Hunt,  alluding  to  his  father's  incapacity  to 
understand  figures,  frankly  admitted,  "His  so-called  improvi 
dence  resulted  partly  from  actual  disappointment  in  profes 
sional  undertakings,  partly  from  a  real  incapacity  to  under 
stand  any  objects  when  they  were  reduced  to  figures,  and 
partly  from  a  readiness  of  self-sacrifice,  which  was  the  less  to 
be  guessed  by  any  one  who  knew  him,  since  he  seldom  alluded 
to  it,  and  never,  except  in  the  vaguest  and  most  unintelligible 
terms,  hinted  at  its  real  nature  or  extent." 

Very  recently,  and  since  the  decease  of  the  great  novelist,  a 
similar  statement  about  Skimpole  and  Leigh  Hunt,  made  in 
the  columns  of  a  daily  journal,  was  thus  replied  to  by  Mr. 
Edmund  Oilier,  an  old  friend  of  the  deceased  essayist :  "  Dick 
ens  himself  corrected  the  misapprehension  in  a  paper  in  '  All 
the  Year  Round,'  towards  the  close  of  1859,  after  Hunt's 
death  ;  and  during  Hunt's  life,  and  after  the  publication  of 
*  Bleak  House,'  he  wrote  a  most  genial  paper  about  him  in 
'  Household  Words.'  It  is  also  within  my  knowledge  that  he 
expressed  to  Leigh  Hunt  personally  his  regret  at  the  Skim- 
pole  mistake." 

Leigh  Hunt  himself,  in  confessing  his  inability  at  school  to 
master  the  multiplication-table,  naively  adds,  "  Nor  do  I  know 
it  to  this  day  !  "  And  again  :  "  I  equally  disliked  Dr.  Frank 
lin,  author  of  i  Poor  Richard's  Almanac,'  a  heap,  as  it  ap- 


GAD'S  HILL   PLACE.  233 

peared  to  me,  of  *  scoundrel  maxims.'  *  I  think  I  now  appre 
ciate  Dr.  Franklin  as  I  ought  ;  but,  although  I  can  see  the 
utility  of  such  publications  as  his  almanac  for  a  rising  com 
mercial  state,  and  hold  it  useful  as  a  memorandum  to  uncalcu- 
lating  persons  like  myself,  who  happen  to  live  in  an  old  one,  I 
think  there  is  no  necessity  for  it  in  commercial  nations  long 
established,  and  that  it  has  no  business  in  others  who  do  not 
found  their  happiness  in  that  sort  of  power.  Franklin,  with  all 
his  abilities,  is  but  at  the  head  of  those  who  think  that  man 
lives  '  by  bread  alone.'  " 

And  again,  in  his  "  Journal,"  a  few  years  ago,  that  gentle 
man,  after  narrating  several  agreeable  hardships  inflicted  upon 
him,  says  :  "  A  little  before  this,  a  friend  in  a  manufacturing 
town  was  informed  that  I  was  a  terrible  speculator  in  the 
money  markets  !  I  who  was  never  in  a  market  of  any  kind 
but  to  buy  an  apple  or  a  flower,  and  who  could  not  dabble  in 
money  business  if  I  would,  from  sheer  ignorance  of  their  lan 
guage  ! " 

GAD'S  HILL  PLACE. 

Though  not  born  at  Rochester,  Mr.  Dickens  spent  some 
portion  of  his  boyhood  there  ;  and  was  wont  to  tell  how  his 
father  the  late  Mr.  John  Dickens,  in  the  course  of  a  country 
ramble,  pointed  out  to  him  as  a  child  the  house  at  Gad's  Hill 
Place,  saying,  "  There,  my  boy  ;  if  you  work  and  mind  your 
book,  you  will,  perhaps,  one  day  live  in  a  house  like  that." 
This  speech  sunk  deep,  and  in  after  years,  and  in  the  course 
of  his  many  long  pedestrian  rambles  through  the  lanes  and 
roads  of  the  pleasant  Kentish  country,  Mr.  Dickens  came  to 
regard  this  Gad's  Hill  House  lovingly,  and  to  wish  himself  its 
possessor.  This  seemed  an  impossibility.  The  property  was 
so  held  that  there  was  no  likelihood  of  its  ever  coming  into  the 
market ;  and  so  Gad's  Hill  came  to  be  alluded  to  jocularly,  as 

1  Thomson's  phrase  in  his  Castle  of  Indolence,  speaking  of  a  miserly  money- 
getter  :  — 

"  '  A  penny  saved  is  a  penny  got ; ' 

Firm  to  this  scoundrel  maxim  keepeth  he, 
Nor  of  its  rigor  will  he  bate  a  jot, 
Till  he  hath  quench' d  his  fire  and  banished  his  pot." 


234  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

representing  a  fancy  which  was  pleasant  enough  in  dream-land, 
but  would  never  be  realized. 

Meanwhile  the  years  rolled  on,  and  Gad's  Hill  became 
almost  forgotten.  Then  a  further  lapse  of  time,  and  Mr. 
Dickens  felt  a  strong  wish  to  settle  in  the  country,  and  de 
termined  to  let  Tavistock  House.  About  this  time,  and  by 
the  strangest  coincidences,  his  intimate  friend  and  close  ally, 
Mr.  W.  H.  Wills,  chanced  to  sit  next  to  a  lady  at  a  London 
dinner-party,  who  remarked,  in  the  course  of  conversation, 
that  a  house  and  grounds  had  come  into  her  possession  of 
which  she  wanted  to  dispose.  The  reader  will  guess  the  rest. 
The  house  was  in  Kent,  was  not  far  from  Rochester,  had  this 
and  that  distinguishing  feature  which  made  it  like  Gad's  Hill 
and  like  no  other  place  ;  and  the  upshot  of  Mr.  Wills's  dinner- 
table  chitchat  with  a  lady  whom  he  had  never  met  before  was, 
that  Charles  Dickens  realized  the  dream  of  his  youth,  and  be 
came  the  possessor  of  Gad's  Hill.  The  purchase  was  made  in 
the  spring  of  1856. 

In  the  "  Uncommercial  Traveller,"  under  the  head  of 
"Travelling  Abroad,"  No.  VII.,  Dickens  makes  this  mention 
of  it :  - 

"  So  smooth  was  the  old  high-road,  and  so  fresh  were  the 
horses,  and  so  fast  went  I,  that  it  was  midway  between 
Gravesend  and  Rochester,  and  the  widening  river  was  bearing 
the  ships,  white-sailed,  or  black-smoked,  out  to  sea,  when  I 
noticed  by  the  way-side  a  very  queer  small  boy. 

"  '  Hallo  !  '  said  I  to  the  very  queer  small  boy,  '  where  do 
you  live  ? ' 

"  '  At  Chatham,'  says  he. 

"  '  What  do  you  do  there  ? '  says  I. 

"  *  I  go  to  school,'  says  he. 

"  I  took  him  up  in  a  moment,  and  we  went  on. 

"  Presently  the  very  queer  small  boy  says,  '  This  is  Gad's 
Hill  we  are  coming  to,  where  Falstaff  went  out  to  rob  those 
travellers  and  ran  away.' 

"  '  You  know  something  about  Falstaff,  eh  ?  '  said  I. 

"  '  All  about  him,'  said  the  very  queer  small  boy. 


BIRDS  OF  A   FEATHER.  235 

"  '  1  am  old  (I  am  nine)  and  I  read  all  sorts  of  books.  But 
do  let  us  stop  at  the  top  of  the  hill  and  look  at  the  house  there, 
if  you  please  ! ' 

"  '  You  admire  that  house  ? '  said  I. 

"  '  Bless  you,  sir  ! '  said  the  very  queer  small  boy,  i  when  I 
was  not  more  than  half  as  old  as  nine,  it  used  to  be  a  treat  for 
me  to  be  brought  to  look  at  it.  And  now  I  am  nine,  I  come 
by  myself  to  look  at  it.  And  ever  since  I  can  recollect,  my 
father,  seeing  me  so  fond  of  it,  has  often  said  to  me,  "  If  you 
were  to  be  very  persevering  and  were  to  work  hard,  you  might 
some  day  come  to  live  in  it."  Though  that 's  impossible  ! ' 
said  the  very  queer  small  boy,  drawing  a  low  breath,  and  now 
staring  at  the  house  out  of  window  with  all  his  might. 

"  I  was  rather  amazed  to  be  told  this  by  the  very  queer 
small  boy,  for  that  house  happens  to  be  my  house,  and  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  what  he  said  was  true." 

BIRDS  OF  A  FEATHER. 

Mr.  Crabb  Robinson  has  preserved  in  his  diary  some  play 
ful  lines  by  Southey  ;  but  his  editor  has  omitted  to  add  a  cir 
cumstance  which  would  have  increased  their  interest.  They 
were  written  in  the  album  of  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall,  and  the  opposite 
page  contained  the  autographs  of  Joseph  Bonaparte  and 
Daniel  O'Connell,  a  circumstance  which  suggested  what  the 
Laureate  wrote  :  — 

"  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together, 

But  vide  the  opposite  page  ; 
And  thence  you  may  gather  I  'm  not  of  a  feather 
With  some  of  the  birds  in  this  cage." 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY,  zzd  October,  1836. 

Some  years  afterwards,  Charles  Dickens,  good-humoredly 
referring  to  Southey's  change  of  opinion,  wrote  in  the  album, 
immediately  under  Southey's  lines,  the  following :  — 

"  Now,  if  I  don't  make 

The  completest  mistake 
That  ever  put  man  in  a  rage, 

This  bird  of  two  weathers 

Has  moulted  his  feathers, 
And  left  them  in  some  other  cige.'r  —  Boz. 


236  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

When  these  last  lines  first  appeared  in  the  "  Art  Journal,"  a 
friend  of  Southey's,  resenting  Boz's  remark,  retaliated  by 
"  good-humoredly  referring  "  to  the  change  of  style  between 
"  Pickwick  "  and  "  Our  Mutual  Friend,"  and  wrote  in  the 
margin  of  the  periodical  :  — 

"  Put  his  first  work  and  last  work  together, 

And  learn  from  the  groans  of  all  men, 
That  if  he  's  not  alter'd  his  feather, 
He  's  certainly  alter'd  his  pen." 

DICKENS  AS  A  SMASHER. 

A  story  is  told  that  on  one  pedestrian  occasion  he  was 
taken  for  a  "  smasher."  He  had  retired  to  rest  at  Gad's  Hill, 
but  found  he  could  not  sleep,  when  he  determined  to  turn  out, 
dress,  and  walk  up  to  London  —  some  thirty  miles.  He 
reached  the  suburbs  in  the  gray  morning,  and  applied  at  an 
"  early  "  coffee-house  for  some  refreshment  tendering  for  the 
same  a  sovereign,  the  smallest  coin  he  happened  to  have 
about  him. 

"  It 's  a  bad  'un,"  said  the  man,  biting  at  it,  and  trying  to 
twist  it  in  all  directions,  "  and  I  shall  give  you  in  charge." 
Sure  enough  the  coin  did  have  a  suspicious  look.  Mr.  Dick 
ens  had  carried  some  substance  in  his  pocket  which  had 
oxydized  it.  Seeing  that  matters  looked  awkward,  he  at  once 
said,  "  But  I  am  Charles  Dickens  !  " 

"  Come,  that  won't  do  ;  any  man  could  say  he  was  '  Charles 
Dickens.'  How  do  I  know  ?  "  The  man  had  been  victimized 
only  the  week  previously,^  and  at  length,  at  Mr.  Dickens's 
suggestion,  it  was  arranged  that  they  should  go  to  a  chemist, 
to  have  the  coin  tested  with  aquafortis.  In  due  course,  when 
the  shops  opened,  a  chemist  was  found,  who  immediately 
recognized  the  great  novelist  —  notwithstanding  his  dusty  ap 
pearance  —  and  the  coffee-house  keeper  was  satisfactorily  con 
vinced  that  he  had  not  been  entertaining  a  "  smasher." 


DICKENS  AND    THE   QUEEN.  237 

DICKENS  AND  THE  QUEEN. 

Only  since  the  death  of  Mr.  Dickens  is  it  that  the  high 
respect  in  which  Her  Majesty  has  always  held  the  great  novel 
ist  and  his  writings  has  become  generally  known,  but  for 
many  years  past  our  Queen  has  taken  the  liveliest  interest  in 
his  literary  labors,  and  has  frequently  expressed  a  desire  for 
an  interview  with  him.  And  here  it  may  not  be  uninteresting 
to  mention  a  circumstance  in  illustration  of  Her  Majesty's  re 
gard  for  her  late  distinguished  subject  which  came  under  the 
writer's  personal  notice.  Six  years  ago,  just  before  the  library 
of  Mr.  Thackeray  was  sold  off  at  Palace  Green,  Kensington, 
a  catalogue  of  the  books  was  sent  to  Her  Majesty — in  all 
probability  by  her  request.  She  desired  some  memorial  of 
the  great  man,  and  preferred  to  make  her  own  selection  by 
purchase  rather  than  ask  the  family  for  any  memento  by  way 
of  gift.  There  were  books  with  odd  drawings  from  Thack 
eray's  pen  and  pencil;  there  were  others  crammed  with  MS. 
notes,  but  there  was  one  lot  thus  described  in  the  catalogue  : 

DICKENS  (C.)  A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL,  in  prose,  1843: 
Presentation  Copy. 

INSCRIBED 

"  W.  M.  Thackeray,  from  Charles  Dickens  (whom  he  made  very 
happy  once  a  long  way  from  home)" 

Her  Majesty  expressed  the  strongest  desire  to  possess  this, 
and  sent  an  unlimited  commission  to  buy  it.  The  original 
published  price  of  the  book  was  $s.  It  became  Her  Majesty's 
property  for  ^25  ioj.,  and  was  at  once  taken  to  the  palace. 

The  personal  interview  Her  Majesty  had  long  expressed  a 
desire  to  have  with  Mr.  Dickens  took  place  on  the  9th  April, 
1870,  when  he  received  her  commands  to  attend  her  at  Buck 
ingham  Palace,  and  accordingly  did  so,  being  introduced  by 
his  friend,  Mr.  Arthur  Helps,  the  clerk  of  the  Privy  Council. 

The  interview  was  a  lengthened  one,  and  most  satisfactory 
to  both.  In  the  course  of  it  Her  Majesty  expressed  to  him 
her  warm  interest  in,  and  admiration  of  his  works  ;  and,  on 
parting,  presented  him  with  a  copy  of  her  own  book,  "  Our 


238  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Life  in  the  Highlands,"  with  an  autograph  inscription,  "  Vic 
toria  R.  to  Charles  Dickens,"  on  the  fly-leaf ;  at  the  same  time 
making  a  charmingly  modest  and  graceful  remark  as  to  the 
relative  positions  occupied  in  the  world  of  letters  by  the  donor 
and  the  recipient  of  the  book. 

Soon  after  his  return  home,  he  sent  to  Her  Majesty  an  edi 
tion  of  his  collected  works  ;  and  when  the  clerk  of  the  Council 
recently  went  to  Balmoral,  the  Queen,  knowing  the  friendship 
that  existed  between  Mr.  Dickens  and  Mr.  Helps,  showed  the 
latter  where  she  had  placed  the  gift  of  the  great  novelist. 
This  was  in  her  own  private  library,  in  order  that  she  might 
always  see  the  books  ;  and  Her  Majesty  expressed  her  desire 
that  Mr.  Helps  should  inform  the  great  novelist  of  this  ar 
rangement. 

Since  our  author's  decease  the  journal  with  which  he  was 
formerly  connected  has  said  :  — 

"  We  were  not  at  liberty  at  that  time  to  make  known  that 
the  Queen  was  then  personally  occupied  with  the  considera 
tion  of  some  means  by  which  she  might,  in  her  public  capacity, 
express  her  sense  of  the  value  of  Mr.  Dickens's  services  to  his 
country  and  to  literature.  It  may  now  be  stated  that  the 
Queen  was  ready  to  confer  any  distinction  which  Mr.  Dick 
ens's  known  views  and  tastes  would  permit  him  to  accept,  and 
that  after  more  than  one  title  of  honor  had  been  declined, 
Her  Majesty  desired  that  he  would,  at  least,  accept  a  place  in 
her  Privy  Council." 

Three  days  before  this  he  had  attended  the  levee  and  been 
presented  to  her  son  H.  R.  H.  the  Prince  of  Wales,  intro 
duced  by  the  Earl  De  Grey  and  Ripon. 

His  daughter,  Miss  Dickens,  was  presented  at  court  to  Her 
Majesty  on  the  loth  of  the  following  month,  introduced  by  the 
Countess  Russell. 

DICKENS'S  BENEVOLENCE. 

The  late  Sheridan  Knowles,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  gave  an 
instance  of  his  generosity  :  "  Poor  Haydn,  the  author  of  the 


METHODICAL  HABITS.  239 

<  Dictionary  of  Dates  '  and  the  '  Book  of  Dignities  '  (I  believe 
I  am  right  in  the  titles),  was  working,  to  my  knowledge,  under 
the  pressure  of  extreme  destitution,  aggravated  by  wretchedly 
bad  health,  and  a  heart  slowly  breaking  through  efforts  inde 
fatigable,  but  vain,  to  support  in  comfort  a  wife  and  a  young 
family.  I  could  not  afford  him  at  the  moment  any  material 
relief,  and  I  wrote  to  Charles  Dickens,  stating  his  miserable 
case.  My  letter  was  no  sooner  received  than  it  was  answered 
—  and  how.  By  a  visit  to  his  suffering  brother,  and  not  of 
condolence  only,  but  of  assistance  —  rescue  !  Charles  Dick 
ens  offered  his  purse  to  poor  Haydn,  and  subsequently  brought 
the  case  before  the  Literary  Society,  and  so  appealingly  as  to 
produce  an  immediate  supply  of  £60.  I  need  not  say  another 
word.  I  need  not  remark  that  such  benevolence  is  not  likely 
to  occur  solitarily.  The  fact  I  communicate  I  learned  from 
poor  Haydn  himself.  Dickens  never  breathed  a  word  to  me 
about  it." 

METHODICAL  HABITS. 

He  did  not  work  by  fits  and  starts,  but  had  regular  hours 
for  labor,  commencing  about  ten  and  ending  about  two.  It  is 
an  old  saying  that  easy  writing  is  very  difficult  reading  ;  Mr. 
Dickens's  works,  so  easily  read,  were  by  no  means  easily 
written.  He  labored  at  them  prodigiously,  both  in  their  con 
ception  and  execution.  During  the  whole  time  that  he  had  a 
book  in  hand,  he  was  much  more  thoughtful  and  preoccupied 
than  in  his  leisure  moments. 

His  hours  and  days  were  spent  by  rule.  He  rose  at  a  cer 
tain  time,  he  retired  at  another,  and  though  no  precisian,  it 
was  not  often  that  his  arrangements  varied.  His  hours  for 
writing  were  between  breakfast  and  luncheon,  and  when  there 
was  any  work  to  be  done  no  temptation  was  sufficiently  strong 
to  cause  it  to  be  neglected.  This  order  and  regularity  fol 
lowed  him  through  the  day.  His  mind  was  essentially  method 
ical  ;  and  in  his  long  walks,  in  his  recreations,  in  his  labor,  he 
was  governed  by  rules  laid  down  for  himself  by  himself,  rules 
well  studied  beforehand,  and  rarely  departed  from.  The  so- 
called  men  of  business,  -the  people  whose  own  exclusive  de- 


240  CHARLES  DICKENS, 

votion  to  the  science  of  profit  and  loss  makes  them  regard 
doubtfully  all  to  whom  that  same  science  is  not  the  main  ob 
ject  in  life,  .would  have  been  delighted  and  amazed  at  this  side 
of  Dickens's  character. 

No  writer  set  before  himself  more  laboriously  the  task  of 
giving  the  public  the  very  best.  A  great  artist  who  once 
painted  his  portrait  while  he  was  in  the  act  of  writing  one  of 
the  most  popular  of  his  stories,  relates  that  he  was  astonished 
at  the  trouble  Dickens  seemed  to  take  over  his  work,  at  the 
number  of  forms  in  which  he  would  write  down  a  thought  be 
fore  he  hit  out  the  one  which  seemed  to  his  fastidious  fancy 
the  best,  and  at  the  comparative  smallness  of  manuscript  each 
day's  sitting  seemed  to  have  produced.  Those,  too,  who  have 
seen  the  original  MSS.  of  his  works,  many  of  which  he  had 
bound  and  kept  at  his  residence  at  Gad's  Hill,  describe  them 
as  full  of  interlineations  and  alterations. 

MANNER  OF  LITERARY  COMPOSITION. 

A  writer  in  a  weekly  journal  says  :  "  I  remember  well  one 
evening,  spent  with  him  by  appointment,  not  wasted  by  intru 
sion,  when  I  found  him,  according  to  his  own  phrase,  'picking 
up  the  threads'  of  '  Martin  Chuzzlewit '  from  the  printed  sheets 
of  the  half  volume  that  lay  before  him.  This  accounts  for  the 
seeming  incompleteness  of  some  of  his  plots  ;  in  others  the 
design  was  too  strong  and  sure  to  be  influenced  by  any  outer 
consideration.  He  was  only  confirmed  and  invigorated  by  the 
growing  applause,  and  marched  on,  like  a  successful  general, 
with  each  victory  made  easier  by  the  preceding  one.  It 
seemed  hardly  to  come  within  his  nature  to  compose  in  soli 
tary  fashion,  and  wait  the  event  of  a  whole  work.  No  doubt 
this  resulted  in  part  from  his  character  as  a  journalist ;  and  so 
did  his  utter  disdain  of  the  shams  which  it  is  the  express 
province  of  journalism  to  detect  and  expose. 

"  His  composition,  easy  as  it  seems  in  the  reading  —  indeed, 
so  natural  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  substitute  any  truer  word 
in  any  place  —  was,  we  are  told,  elaborate  and  slow.  But  in 
his  happier  days  the  process  was  by  no  means  wearisome.  It 


BLANCHARD   JERROLD   ON  DICKENS.  24! 

was  the  love  of  the  idea,  that  could  not  let  it  go  till  he  had 
nursed  it  to  its  utmost  growth.  In  this  he  resembled  many  of 
the  greatest  humorists,  whose  enjoyment  of  their  own  fancies  is 
evidenced  by  the  impossibility  of  passing  them  into  print  while 
a  single  mirth-stirring  thought  or  word  could  be  added  to 
make  the  picture  perfect.  The  result  was  invaluable.  With 
the  exception  only  of  Shakespeare,  among  English  writers  of 
drama  and  fiction,  no  other  author  than  Dickens  yields  so 
many  sentences  on  each  page  of  sterling  value  in  themselves  ; 
no  other  author  can  be  read  and  re-read  with  such  certainty  of 
finding  fresh  pleasure  on  every  perusal.  Nowhere,  with  the 
one  exception,  does  so  much  thought  go  to  finish  the  produc 
tion.  It  is  jeweler's  work,  inlaying  and  enriching  every 
part." 

BLANCHARD  JERROLD  ON  DICKENS. 

I  was  passing  in  review  masses  of  correspondence,  betimes, 
on  June  10,  1870,  clearing  the  weeds  from  the  flowers,  and 
tying  up  the  precious  papers  of  a  life  passed  in  the  thick  of 
the  literary  activities  of  my  time,  when  I  received  a  letter  : 
"  I  should  have  written  to  you  earlier  to-day  but  from  the 
smart  blow  of  this  sudden  illness  of  our  dear  Charles  Dickens, 
who  had  engaged  to  meet  me  this  very  afternoon  (June  9)  at  3 
o'clock,  little  dreaming  of  what  was  to  put  aside  the  appoint 
ment."  I  rang  for  the  morning  papers. 

Charles  Dickens  had  passed  away  from  us  !  Lay  before  me 
his  letter  in  which  he  told  me  how,  on  a  certain  June  day, 
travelling  from  Gad's  Hill  to  London,  a  bluff  city  man  had 
piped  over  the  edge  of  his  morning  paper,  "  Do  you  see 
this  ?  Douglas  Jerrold  is  dead  !  "  Dickens  was  inexpressibly 
shocked,  for  he  had  seen  into  the  heart  of  his  friend  ;  and  they 
had  parted  only  a  few  days  before,  with  the  intention  of  spend 
ing  some  happy  hours  in  the  house  by  Rochester.  "  Few  of 
his  friends," —  I  have  the  words  before  me  in  a  blurred  writing 
not  often  written  by  that  firm  and  willing  hand,  —  "I  think, 
can  have  had  more  favorable  opportunities  of  knowing  him,  in 
his  gentlest  and  most  affectionate  aspect,  than  I  have  had. 
He  was  one  of  the  gentlest  and  most  affectionate  of  men." 
16 


242  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

So  of  Dickens.  Who  knew  him  best  and  closest,  saw  how 
little  he  would  ever  produce  to  the  outer  world,  of  the  bright, 
chivalrous,  engaging,  and  deep  and  tender  heart  that  beat 
within  his  bosom.  The  well  of  kindness  was  open  to  man 
kind,  and  from  it  generations  will  drink  ;  but  it  was  never 
fathomed.  Charles  Dickens,  as  all  writers  about  him  have 
testified,  was  so  graciously  as  well  as  lavishly  endowed  by 
Nature  that  every  utterance  was  sunny,  every  sentiment  pure, 
every  emotional  opinion  instinctively  right,  —  like  a  woman's. 
The  head  that  governed  the  richly-stored  heart  was  wise, 
prompt,  and  alert  at  the  same  time.  He  communicated  to  all 
he  did  the  delightful  sense  of  ease  with  power.  Prodigal  as 
he  was,  he  seemed  ever  to  reserve  more  love  and  tenderness 
than  he  gave.  His  vigor  was  sustained,  as  well  as  brilliant 
and  daring.  His  mind,  so  marked  in  its  self-respect  and 
equal  poise,  was  never  weak  on  great  occasions,  as  the  ju 
dicial  mind  so  often  is.  There  was  something  feminine  in 
the  quality  that  led  him  to  the  right  verdict,  the  appropriate 
word,  the  core  of  the  heart  of  the  question  in  hand.  The  air 
about  him  vibrated  with  his  activity,  and  his  surprising  vitality. 
In  a  difficulty  men  felt  safe,  merely  because  he  was  present. 
Most  easily,  among  all  thinkers  it  has  been  my  fortune  to 
know,  was  he  master  of  every  situation  in  which  he  placed 
himself.  Not  only  because  of  the  latent,  conscious  power 
that  was  in  him,  and  the  knightly  cheerfulness  which  became 
the  pure-minded  servant  of  humanity  who  had  used  himself  to 
victory  ;  but  because  he  adopted  always  the  old  plain  advice, 
and  deliberated  well  before  he  acted  with  the  vigor  which  was 
inseparable  from  any  activity  of  his. 

The  art  with  which  Charles  Dickens  managed  men  and 
women  was  nearly  all  emotional.  As  in  his  books,  he  drew  at 
will  upon  the  tears  of  his  readers  ;  in  his  life  he  helped  men 
with  a  spontaneous  grace  and  sweetness  which  are  indescrib 
able.  The  deep,  rich,  cheery  voice  ;  the  brave  and  noble 
countenance  ;  the  hand  that  had  the  fire  of  friendship  in  its 
grip,  —  all  played  their  part  in  comforting  in  a  moment  the 
creature  who  had  come  to  Charles  Dickens  for  advice,  for 


BLAATHARD  JERROLD   ON  DICKENS.  243 

help,  for  sympathy.  When  he  took  a  cause  in  hand,  or  a 
friend  under  his  wing,  people  who  knew  him  breathed  in  a 
placid  sense  of  security.  He  had  not  only  the  cordial  will  to 
be  of  use  wherever  his  services  could  be  advantageously  en 
listed,  but  he  could  see  at  a  glance  the  exact  thing  he  might 
do  ;  and  beyond  the  range  of  his  conviction  as  to  his  own 
power,  or  the  limit  of  proper  asking  or  advancing,  no  power  on 
earth  could  move  him  the  breadth  of  a  hair. 

Slow  to  adopt  a  cause,  Charles  Dickens  was  the  first  in  the 
battle  for  it  when  he  had  espoused  it.  He  had  the  qualities  of 
the  perfect  trooper,  as  well  as  the  far-seeing  captain.  I  have 
a  letter  of  his,  about  Italy,  dated  1844,  in  which,  amid  hearty 
gossip,  he  turns  to  a  cause  that  was  dear  to  him  at  the  time. 
"  Come  and  see  me  in  Italy,"  he  says  to  my  father.  "  Let  us 
smoke  a  pipe  among  the  vines.  I  have  taken  a  little  house 
surrounded  by  them,  and  no  man  in  the  world  should  be  more 
welcome  to  it  than  you  ;  "  and  from  the  midst  of  the  vines  he 
turns  to  the  Sanatorium  in  the  New  Road,  nearly  opposite  the 
Devonshire  Place  in  which  so  many  wisely-happy  evenings 
have  been  passed.  "  Is  your  modesty  really  a  confirmed 
habit,  or  could  you  prevail  upon  yourself,  if  you  are  moderately 
well,  to  let  me  call  you  up  for  a  word  or  two  at  the  Sanatorium 
dinner  ?  There  are  some  men  —  excellent  men  —  connected 
with  that  institution  who  would  take  the  very  strongest  in 
terest  in  your  doing  so,  and  do  advise  me  one  of  these  days, 
that  if  I  can  do  it  well  and  unaffectedly,  I  may."  Dickens  had 
steadfastness,  endurance,  thoroughness,  in  all  he  undertook. 
If  he  invited  a  friend  to  his  house,  and  it  was  at  a  distance, 
he  would  write  the  most  minute  directions, — a  way-bill, — 
and  enliven  every  mile-stone  with  a  point  of  humor  or  a  happy 
suggestion  of  pleasure  to  come  out  of  the  excursion.  "  Think 
it  over."  (This  from  Switzerland  to  a  dear  friend  in  London.) 
"  I  could  send  you  the  minutest  particulars  of  the  journey. 
It 's  nearly  all  railroad  and  steamboat,  and  the  easiest  in  the 
world."  I  have  another  letter  of  invitation  to  Paris,  written 
some  three-and-twenty  years  ago.  Amid  exquisite  touches  of 
humor,  and  in  the  glow  of  his  friendship,  lie  details  of  the  pre- 


244  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

cisest  kind,  beginning,  — "  The  fifteenth  of  March  is  on  a 
Monday.  Now  you  can't  cross  to  Boulogne  on  a  Sunday,  un 
less  in  summer  time The  railroad  from  Abbeville 

hither,  finished  some  time,  is  announced  to  open  on  the  1st  of 
March."  There  are  directions,  in  the  event  of  the  railroad 
being  open,  and  in  the  event  of  its  remaining  closed,  and  an 
offer  to  secure  the  proper  seat  in  the  malle  poste  at  Boulogne. 
The  coming,  the  visit,  the  return,  the  hour  of  arrival  in  Lon 
don,  are  all  mapped  out,  winding  up  with  "  in  London  on 
Saturday  night  the  27th.  Voila  tout  —  as  we  say." 

In  more  serious  matters,  he  was  a  man  of  order  and  of 
righteous  doing  indeed.  Cant  is  so  well  aired  about  the  world, 
and  people  have  come  to  take  a  spice  of  it  so  much  for  granted 
in  every  public  man  who  holds  the  cause  of  his  brethren  to 
heart,  that  they  can  hardly  conceive  of  the  noblest  servant  that 
he  had  not  the  most  infinitessimal  particle  of  it.  Writing 
from  the  South,  when  he  was  about  to  travel  to  London  with 
the  MS.  of  "  The  Christmas  Carol,"  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago,  to  read  it  to  a  few  friends  in  Mr.  John  Forster's 
chambers  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  he  observed  of  the  book, 
"I  have  tried  to  strike  a  blow  upon  that  part  of  the  brass 
countenance  of  wicked  Cant,  where  such  compliment  is  sorely 
needed  at  this  time  ;  and  I  trust  that  the  result  of  my  train 
ing  is  at  least  the  exhibition  of  a  strong  desire  to  make  it  a 
staggerer.  If  you  should  think  at  the  end  of  the  four  rounds 
(there  are  no  more)  that  the  said  Cant,  in  the  language  of 
'  Bell's  Life,'  '  comes  up  piping,'  I  shall  be  very  much  the 
better  for  it."  Dickens  abhorred  a  sham  with  his  whole  soul. 
When  he  published  his  "  Child's  History  of  England,"  the 
mass  took  it  for  granted  that  the  chapters  which  were  appear 
ing  in  the  columns  of  "  Household  Words  "  were  so  much 
copy,  and  that  the  writing  of  it  for  his  own  children  was  only  a 
common,  and,  to  the  world,  warrantable  artistic  fiction.  Such 
fiction  was  not  possible  to  the  greatest  fiction-writer  of  our 
century.  I  have  his  words  before  me  on  this  history,  and  the 
ink  is  yellowing  fast  :  — 


BLANC  HARD  JERROLD    ON  DICKENS.  24$ 

"  I  am  writing  a  little  history  of  England  for  my  boy,  which 
I  will  send  you  when  it  is  printed  for  him,  though  your  boys 
are  too  old  to  profit  by  it.  It  is  curious  that  I  have  tried  to 
impress  upon  him  (writing,  I  dare  say,  at  the  same  moment 
with  you)  the  exact  spirit  of  your  paper,1  for  I  don't  know  what 
I  should  do  if  he  were  to  get  hold  of  any  Conservative  or 
High  Church  notions  ;  and  the  best  way  of  guarding  against 
such  horrible  result  is,  I  take  it,  to  wring  the  parrot's  neck  in 
his  very  cradle.  O  heaven  !  if  you  could  have  been  with  me 
at  the  hospital  dinner  last  Monday.  There  were  men  there, 
—  your  city^  aristocracy,  — who  made  such  speeches,  and  ex 
pressed  such  sentiments,  as  any  moderately  intelligent  dust 
man  would  have  blushed  through  his  cindery  bloom  to  have 
thought  of.  Sleek,  slobbering,  bow-paunched,  over-fed,  apo 
plectic,  snorting  cattle  —  and  the  auditory  leaping  up  in  their 
delight !  I  never  saw  such  an  illustration  of  the  power  of 
purse,  or  felt  so  degraded  and  debased  by  its  contemplation, 
since  I  have  had  eyes  and  ears.  The  absurdity  of  the  thing 
was  too  horrible  to  laugh  at.  It  was  perfectly  overwhelming. 
But  if  I  could  have  partaken  it  with  anybody  who  wrould  have 
felt  it  as  you  would  have  done,  it  would  have  had  quite  another 
aspect,  or  would  at  least,  like  a  ;  classical '  mask,  have  had  one 
funny  side  to  relieve  its  dismal  features. 

"  Supposing  fifty  families  were  to  emigrate  into  the  wilds  of 
North  America, — yours,  mine,  and  forty-eight  others,  picked 
for  their  concurrence  of  opinion  on  all  important  subjects,  and 
for  their  resolution  to  found  a  colony  of  common  sense,  —  how 
soon  would  that  devil,  Cantj  present  itself  among  them  in  one 
shape  or  other  ?  The  day  they  landed,  do  you  say,  or  the  day 
after  ? 

"  That  is  a  great  mistake,  almost  the  only  one  I  know,  in 
the  *  Arabian  Nights,'  where  the  Princess  restores  people  to 
their  original  beauty  by  sprinkling  them  with  the  Golden 
Water.  It  is  quite  clear  that  she  must  have  made  monsters 
of  them  by  such  a  christening  as  that." 

There  is  a  manuscript  the  world  knows  nothing  about  this 

1   The  Preacher  Parrot. 


246  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

day,  and  yet  which  has  been  for  many  years  in  existence,  and 
in  circulation  among  those  who  were  native  to  the  author's 
hearth.  "  The  Life  of  our  Saviour,"  was  written  by  Charles 
Dickens  to  guide  the  hearts  of  his  children  ;  and  if  ever  a 
labor  of  love  was  done  by  that  most  affectionate  nature,  this 
was  preeminently  it.  "  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power,"  writes 
his  dear  friend,  Mr.  James  T.  Fields,  "  to  bring  to  the  knowl 
edge  of  all  who  doubt  the  Christian  character  of  Charles 
Dickens  certain  other  memorable  words  of  his,  written  years 
ago,  with  reference  to  Christmas.  They  are  not  as  familiar  as 
many  beautiful  things  from  the  same  pen  on  the  same  subject, 
for  the  paper  which  enshrines  them  has  not  as  yet  been  col 
lected  among  his  authorized  works.  Listen  to  these  loving 
words,  in  which  the  Christian  writer  has  embodied  the  life  of 
his  Saviour :  *  Hark  !  the  waits  are  playing,  and  they  break 
my  childish  sleep.  What  images  do  I  associate  with  the 
Christmas  music,  as  I  see  them  set  forth  on  the  Christmas 
tree  !  known  before  all  others,  keeping  far  apart  from  all  the 
others,  they  gather  round  my  little  bed.  An  angel  speaking 
to  a  group  of  shepherds  in  a  field  ;  some  travellers,  with  eyes 
uplifted,  following  a  star ;  a  baby  in  a  manger ;  a  child  in  a 
spacious  temple,  talking  with  grave  men  ;  a  solemn  figure, 
with  a  mild  and  beautiful  face,  raising  a  dead  girl  by  the  hand  ; 
again,  near  a  city  gate,  calling  back  the  son  of  a  widow,  on  his 
bier,  to  life  ;  a  crowd  of  people  looking  through  the  opened 
roof  of  a  chamber  where  he  sits,  and  letting  down  a  sick 
person  on  a  bed,  with  ropes  ;  the  same  in  a  tempest,  walking 
on  the  water  to  a  ship  ;  again,  on  a  seashore,  teaching  a  great 
multitude  ;  again,  with  a  child  upon  his  knee,  and  other  chil 
dren  round  ;  again,  restoring  sight  to  the  blind,  speech  to  the 
dumb,  hearing  to  the  deaf,  health  to  the  sick,  strength  to  the 
lame,  knowledge  to  the  ignorant  ;  again,  dying  upon  a  cross, 
watched  by  armed  soldiers,  a  thick  darkness  coming  on,  the 
earth  beginning  to  shake,  and  only  one  voice  heard,  "  Forgive 
them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do."  '  "  By  the  eloquent 
pages  that  now  will  shortly  be  put  within  reach  of  every  Eng 
lish  and  American  household,  the  children  of  Charles  Dickens 


BLANCHARD  JERROLD   ON  DICKENS.  247 

were  taught  their  first  lessons  of  Christian  love  and  Christian 
chivalry.  With  what  patience  and  thoroughness  he  wrought 
out  his  creed  in  his  home  can  be  known  only  to  the  happy  few 
who  were  privileged  to  live  his  life,  and  to  study  the  splendid 
and  unbroken  harmonies  which  dwelt  in  the  life  within,  as  well 
as  in  the  life  without.  How  far  the  ripples  of  his  home-spirit 
rounded  into  the  outer  world,  will  I  hope,  for  the  sake  of  the 
world,  be  drawn  by  the  hand  to  which  the  solemn  duties  of 
biographer  shall  be  presently  confided.  The  circles  broadened 
into  far-off  places  from  that  vehement  central  vibration  of 
love,  and  strangers  stretched  out  their  arms  to  Dickens,  and 
weary  men  unknown,  sought  his  cheery  and  valiant  tempera 
ment  as  balm  and  comfort. 

When  Ada,  Lady  Lovelace,  was  dying,  and  suffering  the 
tortures  of  a  slow,  internal  disease,  she  expressed  a  craving  to 
see  Charles  Dickens,  and  talk  with  him.  He  went  to  her,  and 
found  a  mourning  house.  The  lady  was  stretched  upon  a 
couch,  heroically  enduring  her  agony.  The  appearance  of 
Dickens's  earnest,  sympathetic  face  was  immediate  relief. 
She  asked  him  whether  the  attendant  had  left  a  basin  of  ice, 
and  a  spoon.  She  had.  "  Then  give  me  some  now  and  then, 
and  don't  notice  me  when  I  crush  it  between  my  teeth  :  it 
soothes  my  pain,  and  —  we  can  talk." 

The  womanly  tenderness,  the  wholeness,  with  which  Dick 
ens  would  enter  into  the  delicacies  of  such  a  situation,  will 
rise  instantly  to  the  mind  of  all  who  knew  him.  That  he  was 
at  the  same  moment  the  most  careful  of  nurses,  and  the  most 
sympathetic  and  sustaining  of  comforters,  who  can  doubt  ? 

"  Do  you  ever  pray  ?  "  the  poor  lady  asked. 

"  Every  morning  and  every  evening,"  was  Dickens's  answer, 
in  that  rich,  sonorous  voice  which  'crowds  happily  can  remem 
ber  ;  but  of  which  they  can  best  understand  all  the  eloquence, 
who  knew  how  simple  and  devout  he  was  when  he  spoke  of 
sacred  things,  —  of  suffering,  of  wrong,  or  of  misfortune. 
"  He  taught  the  world,"  said  his  friend  Dean  Stanley,  over  his 
new-made  grave  in  Westminster  Abbey,  "  great  lessons  of  the 
eternal  value  of  generosity,  of  purity,  of  kindness,  and  of 


248  CHARLES  DICKEATS. 

unselfishness ;  and  by  his  fruits  shall  he  be  known  of  all  men." 
His  engaging  manner  when  he  came  suddenly  in  contact  with 
a  sick  friend,  defies  description  ;  but  from  his  own  narrative  of 
his  walk  with  my  father,  which  he  told  me  made  his  heart 
heavy,  and  was  a  gloomy  task,  it  is  easy  for  friends  to  under 
stand  the  patience,  solicitude,  and  kindly  counsel,  and  de 
signed  humor  with  which  he  went  through  with  it.  My  father 
was  very  ill  ;  but  under  Dickens's  thoughtful  care,  he  had 
rallied  before  they  reached  the  Temple.  "We  strolled  through 
the  Temple,"  Dickens  wrote  me,  "  on  our  way  to  a  boat,  and  I 
have  a  lively  recollection  of  him  stamping  about  Elm  Tree 
Court,  with  his  hat  in  one  hand,  and  the  other  pushing  his  hair 
back,  laughing  in  his  heartiest  manner  at  a  ridiculous  remem 
brance  we  had  in  common,  which  I  had  presented  in  some 
exaggerated  light  to  divert  him."  Then  again,  —  of  the  same 
day,  —  "  The  dinner-party  was  a  large  one,  and  I  did  not  sit 
near  him  at  table.  But  he  and  I  arranged,  before  we  went  in 
to  dinner,  that  he  was  only  to  eat  some  simple  dish  that  we 
agreed  upon,  and  was  only  to  drink  sherry-and-water."  Then, 
"  We  exchanged,  '  God  bless  you  ! '  and  shook  hands." 

And  —  they  never  met  again. 

But  how  full  of  wise  consideration  is  all  this  day  spent  with 
the  invalid  friend,  in  the  midst  of  merriment,  even  to  the 
ridiculous  remembrance  "  presented  in  some  exaggerated 
light,  to  divert  him."  Mr.  Charles  Kent  has  told  me  how  he 
met  Dickens  a  few  weeks  before  his  death,  and  was  observed, 
at  a  glance,  by  that  most  masterly  and  piercing  observer,  to  be 
in  low  spirits  and  feeble.1  Whereupon  Dickens,  who  had  ample 

1  Mr.  Arthur  Helps  recently  said  that,  during  a  walk  with  Charles  Dickens,  the 
great  novelist  observed  nine  objects  for  every  one  that  he,  Mr.  Helps,  observed. 
The  same  might  be  said  by  most  men  who  have  ever  walked  frequently  in  company 
with  Mr.  Dickens.  Besides  this,  I  can  vouch  for  another  yet  more  important  and 
striking  fact,  viz.,  that  Mr.  Dickens  scarcely  ever  looked  direct  at  anything.  He 
walked  along  without  turning  his  head  or  staring  in  front  (as  some  of  those  horrid, 
colored,  glaring  photographs  represent  him),  as  one  should  say — "  Here  I  am 
looking  right  through  you!  "  He  saw  everything  at  a  glance,  or  with  ''half  an  eye.?' 
It  was  only  on  very  particular  occasions  that  he  looked  hard  at  anything.  He  had 
no  need.  His  was  one  of  those  gifted  visions  upon  which  objects  photographed 
themselves  on  the  retina  in  rapid  succession.  The  Poet  Laureate  possesses  a  vision 


BI.ANCHARD  JERROLD  ON  DICKENS.  249 

momentous  business  of  his  own  on  hand,  put  it  aside,  sketched 
a  pleasant  day  together:  a  tete-a-tete  dinner  and  a  walk.  In 
short,  to  watch  the  many  sides  of  his  unselfishness,  and  the 
fund  of  resources  for  the  good  of  other  people  he  had  at  his 
command,  was  to  be  astonished  at  his  extraordinary  vitality. 
How  good  he  was  to  all  who  had  the  slightest  claim  on  him, 
who  shall  tell  ?  But  that  which  Hepworth  Dixon  said  over 
my  father's  dust  may  be  assuredly  repeated  by  the  narrow  bed 
near  Macaulay,  Sheridan,  and  Handel.  If  every  one  who  has 
received  a  favor  at  the  hands  of  Dickens  should  cast  a  flower 
upon  his  grave,  a  mountain  of  roses  would  lie  upon  the  great 
man's  breast.  And,  in  truth,  his  grave  was  filled  with  flowers. 
To  plaster  a  few  of  the  ills  which  obtrude  themselves  un 
pleasantly  upon  the  attention,  with  checks  handed  to  resound 
ing  cheers,  is  a  kind  of  chanty  that  is  strongly  spiced  with 
selfishness.  The  sham  of  charity-dinner  speakers  and  donors 
Dickens  abhorred,  as  I  have  shown.  And  in  like  manner,  and 
with  like  vehemence,  he  detested  slip-shod  assistance,  or 
careless,  unreflecting  giving.  The  last  time  I  sat  with  him  on 
a  business  occasion  was  at  a  council  meeting  of  the  Guild  of 
Literature  and  Art.  There  had  been  an  application  from  the 
wife  of  a  literary  brother.  The  wrecked  man  of  letters  was 
suffering  from  that  which  would  never  relax  its  hold  upon  him. 
But  it  could  not  be  said  that  his  misconduct  had  not  brought 
on  the  blow.  The  firmness  and  delicacy  with  which  Dickens 
sketched  the  case  to  the  council,  passing  wholly  over  the 
cause,  to  get  at  once  to  the  imploring  fact  upon  which  our 
hearts  could  not  be  closed,  left  in  my  mind  a  delightful  sense 
of  his  abounding  goodness.  He  spoke  of  the  wife,  and  her 
heroic  self-abandonment  to  her  husband,  through  years  which 
would  have  tried  beyond  endurance  very  many  wives.  He 
begged  that  the  utmost  might  be  done  ;  and  at  the  same  time 
he  remained  firmly  just.  What  were  the  objects  of  the  fund, 

of  a  similar  kind,  though  no  doubt  more  intense,  if  not  so  universal.  He  has  no  need 
to  fix  his  eyes  upon  anything ;  and,  indeed,  has  been  found  sometimes  to  have  seen 
the  whole  of  an  exquisite  landscape  when  apparently  looking  inwardly,  as  in  a  waking 
dream,  and  lost  to  all  around  him. 


250  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

as  laid  down  in  the  rules  ?  Did  the  case  come  strictly  within 
the  limits  of  our  mission  ?  Friendship,  sympathy,  apart,  was 
it  a  proper  and  deserving  case  ?  The  points  were  argued  with 
the  greatest  care  ;  and  all  the  time  an  acute  anxiety  was  upon 
the  countenance  of  the  chairman.  When  at  length  we  saw 
our  way  to  afford  the  help  desired,  Dickens's  face  brightened 
as  he  became  busy  with  his  minutes  and  his  books,  and  his 
secretary,  who  was  at  hand  ;  and  he  remarked  cheerily  how 
glad  he  was  we  had  seen  our  way  to  do  something. 

Another  occasion  thrusts  itself  through  a  crowd  of  recol 
lections.  A  very  dear  friend  of  mine,  and  of  many  others  to 
whom  literature  is  a  staff,  had  died.  To  say  that  his  family 
had  claims  on  Charles  Dickens  is  to  say  that  they  were 
promptly  acknowledged,  and  satisfied  with  the  grace  and 
heartiness  which  double  the  gift,  sweeten  the  bread,  and  warm 
the  wine.  I  asked  a  connection  of  our  dead  friend  whether  he 
had  seen  the  poor  wife  and  children. 

"  Seen  them  !  "  he  answered.  "  I  was  there  to-day.  They 
are  removed  into  a  charming  cottage.  They  have  everything 
about  them  ;  and,  just  think  of  this,  when  I  burst  into  one  of 
the  parlors,  in  my  eager  survey  of  the  new  home,  I  saw  a  man 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  up  some  steps,  hammering  away  lustily. 
He  turned.  It  was  Charles  Dickens  ;  and  he  was  hanging  the 
pictures  for  the  widow." 

Dickens  was  the  soul  of  truth  and  manliness,  as  well  as 
kindness  ;  so  that  such  a  service  as  this  came  as  naturally  to 
him  as  help  from  his  purse.  His  friend,  Paul  Feval,  has  said 
over  his  grave,  "  Nothing  in  him  was  false,  not  even  his  mod 
esty." 

There  was  that  boy-element  in  Charles  Dickens  which  has 
been  so  often  remarked  in  men  of  genius  as  to  appear  almost 
inseparable  from  the  highest  gifts  of  nature.  "Why,  we 
played  a  game  of  knock'em  down  only  a  week  or  two  ago,"  a 
friend  remarked  to  me  last  June,  with  brimming  eyes.  "  And 
he  showed  all  the  old,  astonishing  energy  and  delight  in  taking 
aim  at  Aunt  Sally." 

My  own  earliest  recollections  of  Charles  Dickens  are  of  his 


BLANCHARD   JERROLD   ON  DICKENS.  2^1 

gayest  moods  :  when  the  boy  in  him  was  exuberant,  and  leap 
frog  or  rounders  were  not  sports  too  young  for  the  player  who 
had  written  "  Pickwick,"  twenty  years  before.  To  watch  him 
through  an  afternoon,  by  turns  light  and  grave  ;  gracious  and 
loving  and  familiar  to  the  young,  apt  and  vigorous  in  council 
with  the  old  ;  ready  for  a  frolic  upon  the  lawn  —  leap-frog, 
rounders  ;  as  ready  for  a  committee-meeting  in  the  library  ; 
and  then  to  catch  his  cheery  good-night,  and  feel  the  hand 
that  spoke  so  truly  from  the  heart,  —  was  to  see  Charles  Dick 
ens  the  man,  the  friend,  the  companion,  and  the  counselor, 
all  at  once,  and  to  get  at  something  like  a  just  estimate  of 
that  which  was  beautiful  in  the  brilliant  and  noble  Englishman 
we  have  lost.  The  sweet  and  holy  lessons  which  he  presented 
to  humanity  out  of  the  humble  places  in  the  world  could  not 
have  been  evolved  out  of  a  nature  less  true  and  sympathetic 
than  his  was.  It  wanted  such  a  man  as  Dickens  was  in  his 
Life  to  be  such  a  writer  as  he  was  for  the  world.  He  drew 
beauties  out  of  material  that  to  the  common  eye  was  vulgar, 
unpromising  stuff.  Shallow  readers  have  said  of  him  that  he 
could  not  draw  a  gentleman  or  a  lady ;  and  this  charge  has 
provoked  some  remarks  from  "  The  Times,"  which  are  bold 
and  to  the  point :  — 

"We  have  heard  it  objected  also  by  gentlemen,  that  Charles 
Dickens  could  never  describe  '  a  lady,'  and  by  ladies  that  he 
could  never  sketch  the  character  of  '  a  gentleman  ;  '  but  we 
have  always  observed,  that  when  put  to  the  proof,  these  male 
and  female  critics  failed  lamentably  to  establish  their  case. 
We  are  not  sure  that  Charles  Dickens's  gentlemen  were  all  as 
well  dressed  as  those  who  resort  to  Poole's  Temple  of  Fashion, 
or  that  his  ladies  were  always  attired  after  the  very  last  fancy 
of  Worth.  Dress  is  no  doubt  what  may  be  called,  in  the  cate 
chism  of  gentility,  the  '  outward  and  visible  sign  '  of  a  gentle 
man,  just  as  the  outward  fashion  of  a  lady  is  shown  by  her 
dress.  But  even  these  are  nothing  if  that  '  inward  and  spir 
itual  grace  '  which  is  characteristic  of  the  true  gentleman  and 
real  lady  be  wanting  ;  and  in  that  grace,  however  negligent 


252  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

they  maybe  in  their  attire,  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  Charles 
Dickens's  works  are  never  deficient.  We  are  not  denying 
that  the  true  type  of  gentle  life  is  to  be  found  in  the  upper 
classes.  Far  from  it.  We  only  insist,  when  we  are  told  that 
Charles  Dickens  could  not  describe  either  a  lady  or  a  gentle 
man,  that  there  are  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  all  ranks  and 
classes  of  life,  and  that  the  inward  delicacy  and  gentle  feeling 
which  we  acknowledge  as  the  only  true  criterion  of  the  class, 
may  be  found  under  the  smock-frock  of  the  ploughboy  as  well 
as  beneath  the  mantle  of  an  earl." 

The  "  fierce  light "  which  beats  not  only  about  a  throne,  but 
about  all  stations  in  life  in  these  days,  has  discovered  the 
absolute  truth  of  the  creed  which  animated  Dickens,  when, 
working  upon  his  own  observation,  he  drew  a  gentleman  in 
the  rough  form  of  Joe  Gargery,  and  planted  a  little  chivalry  in 
the  breast  of  the  convict  who  was  grateful  to  Pip.  In  the 
long  gallery  of  Dickens's  portraits  of  the  men  and  women  of 
his  time,  —  to  which  I  beseech  the  attention  of  the  young 
reader,  —  there  are  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  all  degrees.  He 
made  no  fuss  about  "  Nature's  noblemen  ;  "  but  he  painted 
what  he  saw,  and  delighted  to  find  strong  elements  of  that 
goodness  which  he  loved  so  passionately,  and  worshipped  so 
devoutly,  in  all  his  rambles  and  prospectings  in  the  unlikeliest 
places.  That  he  drew  with  an  impartial  hand,  is  witnessed 
not  only  by  the  hold  his  creations  at  once  got  upon  the  public 
mind,  but  by  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life  and  work,  away  from 
his  desk.  The  conventional  gentleman  and  lady  had  no 
picturesque  side  to  attract  him  ;  and  they  could  seldom  be  got 
into  the  frame  of  his  subject.  He  was  an  artist,  and  he  conse 
quently  preferred  a  green  lane  and  a  gypsy  camp  any  and 
every  day  to  the  Ladies'  Mile  and  a  lounge  in  his  club.  If 
you  want  to  make  your  most  conventional  gentleman  look 
noble  in  marble  to  all  posterity,  you  strip  the  figure  Poole 
has  dressed  in  his  inspired  moment,  and  shake  out  a  toga,  and 
think  about  sandals.  The  poor  and  lowly  come  to  the  artist's 
hand  ready-made  pictures.  Besides,  the  observer's  sense  of 


BLANCHARD  JERROLD   ON  DICKENS.  253 

justice  is  gratified  when  he  finds  himself  enabled,  out  of  the 
fund  of  his  own  discoveries  among  the  neglected  of  his  fellow- 
creatures,  to  rehabilitate  the  humble  and  despised.  While  the 
tendency  of  modern  party  warfare  has  been  grievously  to 
quicken  and  heat  class  animosities,  the  writings  of  Charles 
Dickens,  which  have  been  spread  over  every  level  of  society, 
have  been  powerful  counter-agents,  teaching  all  classes  the 
truth  that  is  the  best  bond  and  the  safest,  viz.,  that,  in  the 
words  of  "  The  Times,"  the  gentlemen  is  to  be  found  "  under 
the  smock-frock  of  the  ploughboy  as  well  as  beneath  the 
mantle  of  an  earl." 

Only  Charles  Dickens  wrought  this  out  many  years  ago,  by 
patient  travels  in  the  midst  of  the  smock-frocks,  and  by  ob 
taining  proof  positive  that  there  was  occasionally  a  gentle 
heart  under  the  corduroy  of  a  costermonger.  Dickens's  triumph 
lay  in  this,  that  he  convinced  mankind  of  the  truth  and  com 
pleteness  of  his  diagnosis.  None  of  the  genteel  classes  are 
on  intimate  terms  of  daily  intercourse  with  hostlers  ;  and  yet 
who  has  not  accepted  Sam  Weller  as  a  part  of  the  breathing 
population  of  the  empire  ?  Dickens's  men  and  women  ought 
to  be  included  in  the  census.1 

1  The  British  Medical  Journal  declares :  "  How  true  to  Nature,  even  in  the 
most  trivial  details,  almost  every  character  and  every  incident  in  the  works  of  the 
great  novelist  whose  dust  has  just  been  laid  to  rest  really  were  is  best  known  to  those 
whose  tastes  or  whose  duties  led  them  to  frequent  the  paths  of  life  from  which  Dick 
ens  delighted  to  draw.  But  none,  except  medical  men,  can  judge  of  the  rare  fidelity 
with  which  he  followed  the  great  Mother  through  the  devious  paths  of  disease  and 
death.  In  reading  Oliver  Twist,  and  Dombey  and  Son  or  The  Chimes,  or 
even  No  Thoroughfare,  the  physician  often  felt  tempted  to  say,  '  What  a  gain  it 
would  have  been  to  physic  if  one  so  keen  to  observe  and  so  facile  to  describe  had  de 
voted  his  powers  to  the  medical  art !  '  It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  his  description  of 
'  hectic '  (in  Oliver  Twist)  has  found  its  way  into  more  than  one  standard  work 
both  in  medicine  and  surgery."  The  Law  Journal  bears  testimony  to  his  truth 
and  force  as  a  painter  of  lawyers  :  "  He  has  left  us  a  whole  gallery  of  legal  carica 
tures.  We  have  the  wonderful  trial  of  Bardell  v.  Pickwick,  introducing  the  fussy 
Buzfuz,  and  that  rare  phenomenon,  a  modest  junior.  In  the  same  book  we  have  the 
smart  Dodson  and  Fogg,  the  excellent  Mr.  Perker,  and  the  solicitor  to  the  Wellers. 
In  Bleak  House  we  have  the  great  chancery  suit  of  Jarndyce  v.  Jarndyce  with 
graphic  descriptions  of  the  court,  of  the  lawyers  engaged  in  the  suit,  of  the  shrewd 
solicitor  of  the  Dedlock  family,  and  of  the  poor  law-writer.  In  the  Old  Curiosity 
Shop,  we  have  Sampson  Brass,  the  masculine  Sally  Brass,  and  the  mirth-provoking 


254  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

By  this  admirable  standpoint  for  his  observation  of  humanity 
which  he  had  adopted,  Dickens  had  come  to  regard  all  men 
and  women  so  thoroughly  and  exclusively  on  account  of  their 
moral,  intellectual,  and  spiritual  worth,  that  he  was  at  home 
with  all  kinds  of  society,  in  the  highest  and  the  humblest 
walks.  So  that  it  is  easy  to  picture  him  standing  in  a  drawing- 
room  at  Windsor  Castle,  one  arm  just  resting  upon  the  sofa, 
and  talking  in  his  quiet  earnest  manner  to  the  first  lady  in  the 
land.  There  would  not  be  the  least  shadow  of  nervous 
ness  in  him  ;  so  great  was  the  command  which  his  trained 
brain  and  heart  had  given  him,  in  the  presence  of  humanity  of 
every  degree,  under  every  conceivable  circumstance,  —  by 
the  throne,  or  facing  thousands  of  his  countrymen,  who  loved 
him,  one  and  all,  so  well. 

"  The  best  of  men 

That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  sufferer ; 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit, 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed." 

The  "  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit,"  how  often 
has  Dickens  painted !  —  the  Christian  gentleman,  if  not 
Poole's  ;  the  modest,  high-souled  gentlewoman,  a  lady,  if  not 
Worth's  !  He  inclined  to  the  Biblia  Pauperum,  and  was  de 
lighted  to  catch  heavy  thumbs  turning  over  the  holy  pictures. 
But  he  turned  no  sour  face  upon  the  well-to-do.  Of  the  foi 
bles  and  pretenses  of  these,  he  was  an  unsparing  critic  ;  but 
he  was  as  unsparing  when  he  had  the  vices  of  the  ignorant 
and  the  poor  to  deal  with.  He  was  pre-Raphaelite  in  his  al 
legiance  and  constancy  to  nature  ;  but  his  eye  loved  the  beau 
tiful,  and  his  spirit  leaned  to  all  that  was  valiant,  noble,  and 
holy  in  the  human  heart.  If  he  took  his  heroes  amid  the 
lower  or  middle  ranks  of  life,  it  was  because  here  the  pictur 
esque  in  these  won  the  artist's  eye  ;  and  if  he  drew  the  good 
that  was  in  the  scenes  he  analyzed,  rather  than  the  bad,  it  was 
because  he  delighted  in  finding.it  under  the  most  unpromising 
circumstances,  and  in  showing,  to  quote  a  line  from  my  father, 

Dick  Swiveller.  In  Great  Expectations  we  have  that  wonderful  character,  Wem- 
mick,  and  his  well-conceived  employer,  the  Old  Bailey  attorney.  We  need  not  add 
to  the  list." 


BLANCH ARD  JERROLD   ON  DICKENS.  2$$ 

"  there  is  goodness,  like  wild  honey,  hived  in  strange  nooks 
and  corners  of  the  world." 

But  I  am  not  presuming  to  elaborate  a  literary  estimate  of 
Charles  Dickens.  The  time  is  not  now,  if  indeed  it  can  ever 
be,  necessary  ;  for  the  popularity  of  his  prodigious  and  glori 
ous  work  has  been,  is,  and  will  be  universal.  People  tell  you 
that  Mrs.  Gamp  will  not  do,  in  French,  as  Madame  Gamp, 
and  that  his  fiction  will  not  bear  transplanting  :  but  the  trans 
planting  steadily  goes  on  nevertheless,  and  every  day  shows 
us  how  far  the  range  of  human  sympathy  stretches,  when  the 
name  of  Dickens  wakes  it.  Papers  in  any  tongue  that  has  a 
printing-press  have  echoed  the  lamentations  of  our  own  over 
him  whom  Mr.  Chorley  has  called  "  one  of  the  greatest  and 
most  beneficent  men  of  genius  England  has  produced  since 
the  days  of  Shakspeare." 

After  writing  the  page  on  which  Dickens  as  a  painter  of 
gentlefolk  was  handled,  I  saw  the  tearful,  eloquent  record 
which  Mr.  Chorley,  who  knew  his  subject  so  well,  printed  in 
"  The  Athenaeum."  I  was  delighted  to  find  my  view  supported 
by  so  sound  an  authority  and  so  intimate  a  friend.  Mr.  Chor 
ley  says  :  "  It  has  been  said  that  he  could  not  draw  gen 
tlemen  and  ladies  (as  footmen  understand  the  designation). 
This  is  false.  The  characters  of  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  in 
'  Bleak  House,'  that  of  Mrs.  Steerforth  in  '  David  Copper- 
field,'  and  fifty  indications  more,  may  be  cited  in  disproof. 
That  he  found  greater  pleasure  in  selecting  and  marking  out 
figures  where  the  traits  were  less  smoothed,  or  effaced  by  the 
varnish  of  polite  society,  than  in  picturing  those  of  a  world 
where  the  expression  of  individual  characters  becomes  less 
marked,  is  true.  To  each  man  his  own  field.  An  essay  could 
be  recalled,  written  to  prove  that  Scott  was  a  miserable  creat 
ure,  because  his  imagination  delighted  in  the  legends  and 
traditions  of  feudal  times,  with  their  Lords  and  their  retainers. 
And  yet  Scott  gave  us  the  fisher-folk  in  '  The  Antiquary,'  and 
Jeannie  Deans.  But  though,  as  '  a  man  of  the  people,'  Dick 
ens  loved  to  draw  the  people  in  all  their  varieties  and  humor 
and  incomplete  ambitions  ;  and  though  he  was  by  nature  and 


256  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

experience  a  shrewd  redresser  of  abuses,  —  tracing  them  back 
to  their  primal  causes,  —  he  was  in  no  respect  the  destroyer 
it  was  for  a  while  the  whim  of  fools  of  quality  and  the  faded 
people  who  hang  on  their  skirts,  to  consider  him.  One 
who  redresses  grievances  is  not,  therefore,  an  overthrower  of 
thrones.  The  life  and  work  of  Dickens  expressed  a  living 
protest  against  Disorder,  —  no  matter  what  the  Order." 

And  in  another  place  Mr.  Chorley  bears  witness  to  that  love 
of  completeness,  as  well  as  of  order,  I  have  touched  upon  : 
"  Those  who  were  permitted  to  know  Charles  Dickens  in  the 
intimacy  of  his  own  home  cannot,  without  such  emotion  as 
almost  incapacitates  the  heart  and  hand,  recall  the  charm  of 
his  bounteous  and  genial  hospitality.  Nothing  can  be  con 
ceived  more  perfect  in  tact,  more  freely  equal,  whatever  the 
rank  of  his  guests,  than  was  his  warm  welcome.  The  frank 
grasp  of  his  hand,  the  bright  smile  on  his  manly  face,  the 
cheery  greeting,  are  things  not  to  be  forgotten  while  life  and 
reason  last,  by  those  who  were  privileged  to  share  them. 
Thus,  his  exquisite  knowledge  arid  punctuality  gave  him  time, 
even  when  most  busily  at  work  for  himself  and  others,  to  care 
for  and  to  consider  the  pleasure  of  all  whom  he  harbored  be 
neath  his  roof." 

Signs  of  the  end,  and  that  he  knew  the  end  was  at  hand, 
were  revealed  day  by  day,  immediately  after  his  death  ;  and 
they  are  so  many  marks  of  the  love  of  order  that  was  a  ruling 
passion  in  Dickens  throughout  his  life.  Death  could  not 
catch  Charles  Dickens  unprepared,  in  any  sense.  That  he 
had  misgivings,  warnings,  we  cannot  doubt  ;  and  these  led 
him  to  prepare  for  the  change.  Only  a  few  days  before  his 
death,  he  transferred  the  property  of  "  All  the  Year  Round  " 
to  his  eldest  son,  and  formally  resigned  its  editorship.  On  the 
very  day  on  which  he  died  he  was  to  have  met  his  stanch  and 
affectionate  friend  and  fellow-worker,  W.  H.  Wills,  to  make  a 
final  settlement  of  accounts.  He  wrote  to  his  "  ever-affec- 
tionately  "  Charles  Kent :  "  To-morrow  is  a  very  bad  day  for 
me  to  make  a  call,  as,  in  addition  to  my  usual  office  business,  I 
have  a  mass  of  accounts  to  settle  ;  but  I  hope  to  be  with  you 


BLANCHARD   JERROLD   ON  DICKENS.  257 

at  three  o'clock.  If  I  can't  be,  why  then  I  shan't  be."  — (The 
letter  was  written  an  hour  or  two  before  he  lay  insensible,  his 
light  forever  quenched,  in  the  dining-room  of  Gad's  Hill 
Place.)  —  "  You  must  really  get  rid  of  those  opal  enjoyments. 
They  are  too  overpowering. 

k  These  violent  delights  have  violent  ends.' 

I  think  it  was  a  father  of  your  church  who  made  this  wise  re 
mark  to  a  young  gentleman  who  got  up  early  (or  strayed  out 
late)  at  Verona  ?  " 

The  "  opal  enjoyments "  refer  to  the  early  sky,  and  the 
whole  is  pleasant  banter  on  the  vehement  devotion  of  his 
friend  (the  distinguished  poet)  to  his  work  as  editor  of  "  The 
Sun." 

I  had  met  Dickens  about  the  middle  of  May,  at  Charing 
Cross,  and  had  remarked  that  he  had  aged  very  much  in  ap 
pearance.  The  thought-lines  of  his  face  had  deepened,  and 
the  hair  had  whitened.  Indeed,  as  he  approached  me,  I 
thought  for  a  moment  I  was  mistaken,  and  that  it  could  not  be 
Dickens  ;  for  that  was  not  the  vigorous,  rapid  walk,  with  the 
stick  lightly  held  in  the  alert  hand,  which  had  always  belonged 
to  him.  It  was  he,  however  ;  but  with  a  certain  solemnity  of 
expression  in  the  face,  and  a  deeper  earnestness  in  the  dark 
eyes.  However,  when  he  saw  me  and  shook  my  hand,  the  de 
lightful  brightness  and  sunshine  swept  over  the  gloom  and 
sadness,  and  he  spoke  buoyantly,  in  the  old  kind  way,  not  in 
the  least  about  himself,  but  about  my  doings,  about  Dord, 
about  London  as  a  subject  (which  I  and  my  friend  had  just 
resolved  to  write  upon  together),  —  about  all  that  could  in 
terest  me,  and  which  occurred  to  him  at  the  moment.  And  he 
wrung  my  hand  again  as  we  parted  ;  and  the  cast  of  serious 
thought  settled  again  upon  the  handsome  face,  when  he  turned, 
wearily,  I  thought  for  him,  toward  the  Abbey. 

That  within  a  month  he  would  be  resting  there  forever, 
buried  under  flowers  cast  by  loving  hands,  and  that  the  whole 
civilized  world  would  be  lamenting  the  loss  of  the  great  and 
good  Englishman,  I  never  for  one  moment  dreamed.  But  I 
thought  sadly  of  him,  I  remember,  after  we  had  parted.  Noi 
17 


258  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

was  I  alone  in  this.  He  was  walking  with  a  dear  friend  of  his 
a  few  weeks  ago,  when  this  one  said,  speaking  of  "  Edwin 
Drood,  "  — 

"  Well,  you,  or  we,  are  approaching  the  mystery  " 

Dickens,  who  had  been  and  was  at  the  moment,  all  vivacity, 
extinguished  his  gayety,  and  fell  into  a  long  and  silent  reverie, 
from  which  he  never  broke  during  the  remainder  of  the  walk. 
Was  he  pondering  another  and  a  deeper  mystery  than  any  his 
brain  could  unravel,  facile  as  its  mastery  was  over  the  hearts 
and  brains  of  his  brethren  ? 

We  can  never  know. 

It  is  certain,  however,  that  the  railway  accident  on  the  9th 
of  June,  1865,  in  which  Dickens  so  nearly  lost  his  life,  made 
an  ineradicable  impression  on  him  ;  and  that,  when  he  re 
ferred  to  it,  he  would  get  up  and  describe  it  with  extraordinary 
energy.  He  closed  his  last  completed  work  with  a  reference 
to  it :  "I  remember  with  devout  thankfulness  that  I  can 
never  be  much  nearer  parting  company  with  my  readers  for 
ever  than  I  was  then,  until  there  shall  be  written  against  my 
life  the  two  words  with  which  I  have  this  day  closed  this 
book,  —  THE  END." 

Too  soon,  for  the  country  that  loved  him  and  was  so  proud 
of  him,  were  those  two  words  written  ;  and  they  were  written 
on  the  9th  of  June  1870 ! 

SIR  ARTHUR  HELPS  ON  DICKENS. 

When  a  great  man  departs  from  us,  what  we  desire  to  know 
about  him  is  not  so  much  what  he  did,  as  what  he  was. 

Volumes  of  criticism  might  be  written  upon  the  characters 
which  Mr.  Dickens  has  drawn  for  us,  for  they  are  persons 
with  whom  we  have  lived,  and,  as  regards  the  reality  of  whose 
existence,  even  the  most  incredulous  and  unimaginative  peo 
ple  refuse  to  entertain  any  historic  doubts.  But  though  these 
creatures  of  his  brain  tell  us  much  about  a  man,  they  do  not 
tell  us  all  that  we  want  to  know,  or  even  that  which  we  crave 
to  know  most  about  him. 

It  is  the  same  with  great  generals  and  great  statesmen  as 


SIX  ARTHUR  HELPS  ON  DICKENS.  259 

with  great  authors.  Their  skill  in  statesmanship  or  war  has 
had  its  effect,  and  is  duly  chronicled  ;  but,  after  a  time,  we 
are  more  anxious  to  know  what  the  general  or  statesman  was 
like  ;  what  manner  of  man  he  was  ;  than  to  read  about  his 
military  glories  or  his  cruel  triumphs. 

There  will  be  few  households  that  will  not  desire  some  por 
trait  of  Mr.  Dickens  ;  but,  alas,  how  little  can  any  portrait  tell 
of  such  a  man  !  His  was  one  of  those  faces  which  require  to 
be  seen  with  the  light  of  life.  What  portrait  can  do  justness 
to  the  frankness,  kindness,  and  power  of  his  eyes  ?  They 
seemed  to  look  through  you,  and  yet  only  to  take  notice  of 
what  was  best  in  you  and  most  worthy  of  notice.  And  then 
his  smile,  which  was  most  charming  !  And  then  his  laughter 
—  not  poor,  thin,  and  ambiguous  laughter,  that  is  ashamed  of 
itself,  that  moves  one  feature  only  of  the  face,  —  but  the 
largest  and  heartiest  kind,  irradiating  his  whole  countenance, 
and  compelling  you  to  participate  in  his  immense  enjoyment 
of  it. 

He  was  both  witty  and  humorous,  a  combination  rarely  met 
with;  and  both  in  making  and  appreciating  fun  —  which  we 
may  perhaps  define  as  a  happy  product  of  humor  and  geni 
ality,  upborne  by  animal  spirits  —  I  never  met  his  equal. 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that  his  powers  of  observation  were 
almost  unrivaled  ;  and  therein,  though  it  is  a  strange  obser 
vation  to  make,  he  used  to  remind  me  of  those  modern  magi 
cians  whose  wondrous  skill  has  been  attained  by  their  bein£ 
taught  from  their  infancy  to  see  more  things  in  less  time  than 
any  other  men.  Indeed,  I  have  said  to  myself,  when  I  have 
been  with  him,  he  sees  and  observes  nine  facts  for  any  two 
that  I  see  and  observe. 

As  is  generally  the  case  with  imaginative  men,  I  believe 
that  he  lived  a  great  deal  with  the  creatures  of  his  imagina 
tion,  and  that  they  surrounded  him  at  all  times.  Such  men 
live  in  two  worlds,  the  actual  and  imaginative,  and  he  lived 
intensely  in  both. 

I  am  confirmed  in  this  opinion  by  a  reply  he  once  made  to 
me.  I  jestingly  remarked  to  him  that  I  was  very  superior  to 


26O  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

him,  as  I  had  read  my  "  Pickwick  "  and  my  "  David  Copper- 
field,"  whereas  he  only  wrote  them.  To  which  he  replied, 
that  I  did  not  know  the  pleasure  he  had  received  from  what 
he  had  written  ;  and  added  words  which  I  do  not  recollect, 
but  which  impressed  me  at  the  time  with  the  conviction  that 
he  lived  a  good  deal  with  the  people  of  his  brain,  and  found 
them  very  amusing  society. 

He  was  of  a  commanding  and  organizing  nature  ;  a  good 
man  of  business,  frank,  clear,  decisive,  imperative  :  a  man 
to  confide  in  and  look  up  to  as  a  leader,  in  the  midst  of  any 
great  peril. 

This  brings  me  to  another  part  of  his  character  which  was 
very  remarkable.  He  was  one  of  the  most  precise  and  ac 
curate  men  in  the  world  ;  and  he  grudged  no  labor  in  his  work. 
Those  who  have  seen  his  MSS.  well  recollect  what  elaborate 
notes,  and  comments,  and  plans  (some  adopted,  many  re 
jected)  went  to  form  the  basis  of  his  works.  To  see  those 
manuscripts  would  cure  anybody  of  the  idle  and  presumptuous 
notion  that  men  of  genius  require  no  forethought  or  prepara 
tion  for  their  greatest  efforts,  but  that  these  are  dashed  by 
the  aid  of  a  mysterious  something  which  is  comprehended  in 
the  mysterious  word  "  genius."  It  was  one  of  Mr.  Dickens's 
theories,  and  I  believe  a,  true  one,  that  men  differ  in  hardly 
anything  so  much  as  in  their  power  of  attention,  and  he  cer 
tainly,  whatever  he  did,  attended  to  it  with  all  his  might. 

Mr.  Dickens  was  a  very  good  listener,  paying  the  greatest 
attention  to  the  person  who  was  speaking  (that  is,  if  he  was 
saying  anything  worth  attending  to),  and  never  interrupting, 
except  perhaps  by  uttering,  as  if  he  approved  of  what  was 
being  said,  the  words,  "  surely,  surely,"  which  was  a  favorite 
expression  of  his. 

He  was  very  refined  in  his  conversation,  at  least  what  I  call 
"  refined,"  for  he  was  one  of  those  persons  in  whose  society 
one  is  comfortable  from  the  certainty  that  they  will  never  say 
anything  which  can  shock  other  people,  or  hurt  their  feelings, 
be  they  ever  so  fastidious  or  sensitive. 

I  have  hardly  spoken  enough  of  his  punctilious  accuracy. 


SIR  ARTHUR  HELPS  ON  DICKENS.  261 

As  a  curious  instance  of  this,  I  may  mention  that  where  most 
men  use  figures,  he  would  use  words  :  for  example,  in  his 
letters,  writing  the  day  of  the  month  always  in  full.  He  had  a 
horror  of  being  misunderstood,  and  grudged  no  labor  to  be 
"  understanded  of  the  people." 

His  love  of  order  and  neatness  was  almost  painful.  Un- 
punctuality  made  him  unhappy.  I  am  afraid,  though,  some 
people  would  hardly  have  called  him  punctual,  for  he  was  so 
anxious  to  be  in  time  that  he  was  invariably  before  the  time. 
The  present  writer  has  this  same  fault  if  fault  it  be,  which  was 
once  the  cause  of  a  droll  circumstance  that  occasioned  some 
amusement  to  our  friends.  We  were  going  to  a  railway  sta 
tion  together.  I  planned  to  be  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before 
the  time,  and  he,  who  had  the  final  ordering  of  the  carriage, 
and  who  had  not  a  proper  belief  in  my  punctuality,  added 
another  quarter  of  an  hour  of  his  own ;  so  that  our  conjoint 
punctualities  brought  us  to  the  station  a  good  half  hour  before 
the  time.  That  time,  however,  that  we  spent  together  on  that 
occasion,  was  well  spent  by  me  in  listening  to  him  as  he  dis 
coursed  upon  the  beautiful  forms  of  clouds. 

At  home,  and  as  a  host,  he  was  delightful.  I  think  I  have 
observed  that  he  looked  at  all  things  and  people  dramatically. 
He  assigned  to  all  of  us  characters  ;  and  in  his  company  we 
could  not  help  playing  our  parts. 

He  had  the  largest  toleration.  I  had  not  intended  to  say 
anything  about  his  works  ;  but  I  must  do  so  now,  as  I  see 
that  they  afford  a  singular  instance  of  this  toleration.  Think 
of  this  precise,  orderly,  methodical  man  depicting  so  lovingly 
such  a  disorderly,  fearless,  reckless,  unmethodical  character 
as  that  of  Dick  Swiveller,  and  growing  more  enamored  of  it 
as  he  went  on  depicting  !  I  rather  think  that  in  this  he  was 
superior  to  Walter  Scott,  for  in  almost  all  Scott's  characters 
there  appears  one  or  the  other,  or  both  combined,  of  Scott's 
principal  characteristics,  namely,  nobility  of  nature  and 
shrewdness.  Andrew  Fairservice  is  comparatively  ignoble  ; 
but  he  is  always  shrewd.  And,  in  fact,  I  think  it  may  be 
maintained  that  one  or  other  of  these  characteristics  is  visible 
in  every  one  of  Scott's  characters. 


262  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Mr.  Dickens's  own  kindness  of  nature  is  visible  in  most  of 
his  characters.  He  could  not  well  get  rid  of  that,  as  a  general 
rule,  by  any  force  of  fiction  Still  there  are  a  few  characters, 
such  as  that  of  Jonas  Chuzzlewit,  in  which  he  has  succeeded 
in  denuding  the  character  of  any  trait  belonging  to  himself. 

We  doubt  whether  there  has  ever  been  a  writer  of  fiction 
who  took  such  a  real  and  loving  interest  in  the  actual  world 
about  him.  Its  many  sorrows,  its  terrible  injustice,  its  suffer 
ings,  its  calamities,  went  to  his  heart.  Care  for  the  living 
people  about  him  —  for  his  "neighbor,"  if  I  may  so  express  it 
—  sometimes  even  diminished  his  power  as  an  artist ;  a  dim 
inution  of  power  for  which,  considering  the  cause,  we  ought  to 
love  his  memory  all  the  more. 

I  have  sometimes  regretted,  perhaps  unwisely,  that  he  did 
not  take  a  larger  part  —  or  shall  I  say  a  more  prominent 
part  ?  —  in  public  affairs.  Not  for  our  own  sakes,  but  for  his. 
Like  all  men  who  see  social  evils  very  strongly  and  clearly, 
and  also  their  way  to  remedies  (to  be,  as  they  think,  swiftly 
applied),  he  did  not  give  enough  weight,  I  think,  to  the  inevi 
table  difficulties  which  "must  exist  in  a  free  State  to  prevent 
the  rapid  and  complete  adoption  of  these  remedies.  "  Cir 
cumlocution"  is  everywhere — in  the  Senate,  at  the  bar,  in 
the  field,  in  ordinary  business  as  well  as  in  official  life  ;  and 
men  of  Mr.  Dickens's  temperament,  full  of  ardor  for  the  pub 
lic  good  and  somewhat  despotic  in  their  habits  of  thought, 
find  it  difficult  to  put  up  with  the  tiresome  aberrations  of  a 
freedom  which  will  not  behave  itself  at  once  in  a  proper  way, 
and  set  to  work  to  provide  immediate  remedies  for  that  which 
ought  to  be  remedied.  When  you  come  close  to  any  great 
man,  you  generally  find  that  he  has  somewhat  of  a  despotic 
nature  in  this  respect. 

There  is  a  certain  characteristic  of  the  highest  and  best 
minds  ;  and  perhaps  it  tends,  more  than  almost  any  other,  to 
produce  greatness  of  character.  It  is  the  habit  of  telling  the 
truth  to  one's  self.  The  world  would  be  a  much  more  happy 
place  to  live  in,  if  its  inhabitants  would  only  adopt  the  habit 
of  telling  the  truth  occasionally  to  themselves.  Now,  this 


SIR  ARTHUR   HELPS  ON  DICKENS.  263 

habit  will  not  make  what  is  called  a  consistent  character  ;  but 
it  will  make,  what  is  far  more  important,  a  truthful  character. 
Everybody  knows  that  Mr.  Dickens  was  simple  in  his  ways  of 
living,  in  his  tastes,  in  his  ambition.  Probably,  in  the  inevi 
table  imitation  of  a  great  man,  there  will,  for  some  time,  be  a 
run  upon  simplicity  of  this  kind.  But  there  are  many  persons 
whom  such  simplicity  does  not  suit,  or  become.  Now,  if  Mr. 
Dickens  had  professed  a  love  for  what  is  not  simple,  if  he  had 
been  devoted  to  what  is  grand,  and  gorgeous,  and  resounding, 
we  should  have  known  it,  because  he  would  have  known  it, 
and  would  have  been  the  first  person  to  have  told  himself  of  it, 
and  would,  to  use  an  official  phrase,  have  "  governed  himself 
accordingly."  That  exquisite  sincerity  of  nature  which  pro 
duces  such  a  result  was  most  manifest  in  him.  He  was  very 
dramatic  in  his  imagination,  and  brought  all  that  he  saw  and 
felt  into  a  magic  circle  of  dramatic  creation.  But  he  never 
dramatized  himself  to  himself.  Of  course,  Shakespeare  per 
ceived  the  full  meaning  aad  depth  of  this  great  quality  which 
I  have  endeavored  to  portray  as  belonging  preeminently  to 
Mr.  Dickens.  We  feel  that  Shakespeare  must  have  done  so, 
when  he  says  — 

"To  thine  own  self  be  true, 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man." 

Mr.  Dickens  loved  the  poor.  He  understood  them.  He 
was  wise  enough  to  see  how  very  needful  recreation  is  for 
them  ;  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  delight  with  which  he  de 
scribed  to  me,  giving  it  with  all  those  details  that  were  with 
him  pure  touches  of  art,  an  entertainment  that  he  had  pro 
vided  for  the  neighboring  poor  in  his  own  fields  ;  and  how  he 
rejoiced  in  their  orderliness  and  good  behavior. 

He  ardently  desired,  and  confidently  looked  forward  to,  a 
time  when  there  would  be  more  intimate  union  between  the 
different  classes  in  the  State  —  a  union  embracing  alike  the 
highest  and  the  lowest. 

It  always  seemed  to  me  that  he  had  a  power  of  narration  which 
was  beyond  anything  even  which  his  books  drew  forth.  How 


264  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

he  would  narrate  to  you,  sitting  on  a  gate  or  on  a  fallen  tree, 
some  rustic  story  of  the  people  he  had  known  in  his  neighbor 
hood  !  It  was  the  very  perfection  of  narrative.  Not  a  word 
was  thrown  away,  not  an  adjective  misused  ;  and  I  think  all 
those  who  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  hear  him  recount  one 
of  these  stories  will  agree  with  me,  that  it  was  a  triumph,  — 
an  unconscious  triumph  of  art. 

He  was  one  of  those  men  who  almost  invariably  speak  well 
of  others  behind  their  backs  ;  one  of  the  truest  friends,  and 
very  little  given  to  reveal  any  injury  that  concerned  himself 
alone.  In  that  respect  he  often  reminded  me  of  Lord  Palmer- 
ston,  though  he  was  not  equal  to  that  statesman  in  supreme 
serenity  of  temper.  There  was,  however,  a  considerable  re 
semblance  between  these  two  remarkable  men  in  several 
points.  They  had  both  a  certain  hearty  bluffness  of  manner. 
There  was  a  sea-going  way  about  them,  as  of  a  captain  on  his 
quarter-deck.  They  were  both  tremendous  walkers,  and  took 
interest  in  every  form  of  labor,  rustic,  urban,  or  commercial. 
Then,  too,  they  made  the  most  and  best  of  everything  that 
came  before  them  :  stood  up  sturdily  for  their  own  way  of 
thinking,  and  valued  greatly  their  own  peculiar  experiences. 

Mr.  Dickens  delighted  to  praise  ;  and  there  were  few  per 
sons  who  appreciated  more  fully  than  he  did  the  works  of  his 
contemporaries. 

His  criticisms  on  the  literary  works  of  others  were  given  in 
that  frank,  friendly,  helpful  way  which  makes  criticism  most 
effective.  I  knew  a  brother  author  of  his  who  received  such 
criticisms  from  him  very  lately,  and  profited  by  it.  Mr.  Dick 
ens,  seeing  that  the  said  author  was  much  perplexed  in  finding 
a  good  title  for  a  work  which  he  was  preparing,  took  the 
greatest  interest  in  aiding  his  friend  ;  and  during  the  last  few 
weeks  of  his  life,  amidst  all  his  own  labors,  would  write  some 
times  more  than  one  letter  a  day  to  make  fresh  suggestions 
about  this  troublesome,  but  most  important  thing,  this  title  of 
a  work.  These  are  small  traits  to  mention  ;  but  they  are  very 
significant. 

Everybody  has  heard  of  Mr.  Dickens's  preeminence  as  an 


SIR  ARTHUR  HELPS  ON  DICKENS.  26$ 

actor,  but  perhaps  it  is  not  generally  known  what  an  admirable 
speaker  he  was.  The  last  speech,  I  believe,  that  he  ever 
made  was  at  the  Academy  dinner  ;  and  I  think  it  would  be  ad 
mitted  by  every  one,  including  those  who  also  made  excellent 
speeches  on  that  occasion,  that  Mr.  Dickens's  was  the  speech 
of  the  evening.  He  was  herein  greatly  aided  by  nature,  hav 
ing  that  presence  conveying  the  idea  of  courage  and  honesty, 
which  gives  much  effect  to  public  speaking,  and  also  pos 
sessing  a  sweet,  deep-toned,  audible  voice,  that  had  exceeding 
pathos  in  it.  Moreover,  he  had  most  expressive  hands  —  not 
beautiful,  according  to  the  ordinary  notions  of  beauty,  but 
nervous  and  powerful  hands.  He  did  not  indulge  in  gesticula 
tion  ;  but  the  slight  movement  of  these  expressive  hands 
helped  wonderfully  in  giving  additional  force  and  meaning  to 
what  he  said,  as  all  those  who  have  been  present  at  his  read 
ings  will  testify.  Indeed,  when  he  read,  or  when  he  spoke, 
the  whole  man  read  or  spoke. 

It  was  Mirabeau,  who  had  the  happy  thought  of  combining 
the  names  of  well-known  persons  in  history  or  fiction,  in  order 
to  describe  some  great  contemporary  ;  and  who,  most  graphi 
cally,  gave  the  compound  name  of  Cromwell-Grandison  to 
Lafayette.  Now,  if  we  were  to  try  to  make  a  similar  com 
pound  name  for  Charles  Dickens,  whose  names  should  we 
chose  ?  That  hackneyed  quotation  —  may  it  remain  hackneyed 
to  the  end  of  time  !  — 

"  A  man  's  a  man  for  a'  that," 

gives  the  key-note  of  Burns's  character  :  and,  as  all  that  the 
quotation  signifies,  there  is  a  profound  resemblance  between 
Robert  Burns  and  Charles  Dickens.  Then,  there  is  Le  Sage. 
There  is  much  likeness,  without  the  faintest  imitation  on  the 
part  of  the  later  author,  between  "  Gil  Bias  "  and  some  of  Mr. 
Dickens's  works.  Then  there  is  Cervantes.  At  first  there 
may  be  thought  to  be  very  little  similarity  between  these  two 
great  masters  of  tears  and  laughter.  But  in  one  material 
point  there  is  the  closest  resemblance.  They  were  such  ten 
der-hearted  men  that  they  could  not  be  satisfied  with  making 


266  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

the  characters  they  drew,  remarkable  for  what  is  merely  ludi 
crous  or  ridiculous.  And,  infallibly,  as  they  went  on  writing, 
they  wove  in  worth  and  goodness  with  all  that  is  most  comic. 
Unfortunately,  the  names  that  I  have  suggested  will  not  com 
bine  prettily,  but  this  endeavor  to  find  such  a  compound  name 
may  serve  to  convey  some  of  Mr.  Dickens's  principal  char 
acteristics,  as  shown  in  his  writings. 

I  have  done  my  best  to  describe  Mr.  Dickens  such  as  he 
appeared  to  me,  and  certainly  I  have  not  uttered  one  word  of 
flattery.  But  who  can  describe  a  great  man  —  or  indeed  any 
man  ?  We  map  down  his  separate  qualities  ;  but  the  subtle 
combination  of  them  made  by  Nature  eludes  our  description ; 
and,  after  all,  we  fail,  as  I  have  failed  now,  in  bringing  before 
the  reader  the  full  sweetness,  lovingness,  and  tenderness,  wit 
and  worth  and  sagacity,  of  such  a  man  as  Charles  Dickens, 
whose  death  is  not  merely  a  private  grief  —  unspeakably  ir 
reparable —  to  his  family  and  his  many  friends,  but  a  public 
sorrow  which  all  nations  unite  in  deploring. 

REMINISCENCES  OF  DICKENS. 

Even  the  trivialities  connected  with  a  great  man  are  inter 
esting,  and  the  mildest  anecdotes  of  a  hero's  private  life  are 
full  of  flavor  to  those  who  know  him  only  on  the  pedestal  of 
his  public  career.  It  is  not  my  intention  to  enter  into  any  of 
the  vexed  questions  regarding  his  domestic  unhappiness,  but 
to  merely  give  a  true  detail  of  my  impressions  of  him  during 
the  period  of  the  few  months  in  which  I  was  in  daily  inter 
course  with  Charles  Dickens  and  his  family.  These  reminis 
cences  of  him,  though  disinterred  from  the  memories  of  nearly 
twenty-nine  years  ago,  may  still  afford  amusement  to  others, 
as  they  do  to  me  in  recalling  them.  So  vivid  is  my  first  im 
pression  of  our  great  author  that  I  can  see  him  now  "  in  my 
mind's  eye  "  as  clearly  depicted  as  if  days,  and  not  years,  had 
intervened  since  I  was  presented  to  him  at  the  house  of  a 
relative  of  mine.  I  was  first  introduced  to  his  wife  in  the 
sanctuary  of  the  bedroom,  where  I  was  arranging  my  hair  be 
fore  the  glass.  I  thought  her  a  pretty  little  woman,  with  the 


REMINISCENCES  OF  DICKENS.  267 

heavy-lidded  large  blue  eyes  so  much  admired  by  men.  The 
nose  was  a  little  retrousse,  the  forehead  good,  mouth  small, 
round,  and  red-lipped,  with  a  pleasant  smiling  expression, 
notwithstanding  the  sleepy  look  of  the  slow-moving  eyes. 
The  weakest  part  of  the  face  was  the  chin,  which  melted  too 
suddenly  into  the  throat.  She  took  kindly  notice  of  me,  and 
I  went  down  with  a  fluttering  heart  to  be  introduced  to 
"  Boz." 

The  first  ideas  that  flashed  through  me  were,  "  What  a  fine 
characteristic  face  !  What  marvelous  eyes  !  And  what  hor 
rid  taste  in  dress  !  " 

He  wore  his  hair  long,  in  "  admired  disorder,"  and  it  suited 
the  picturesque  style  of  his  head  ;  but  he  had  on  a  surtout 
with  a  very  wide  collar,  very  much  thrown  back,  showing  a 
vast  expanse  of  waistcoat,  drab  trousers,  and  drab  boots  with 
patent  leather  toes,  and  the  whole  effect  (apart  from  his  fine 
head)  gave  evidence  of  a  loud  taste  in  costume,  and  was  not 
proper  for  evening  dress. 

Of  course,  I  listened  eagerly  during  dinner  to.  catch  the 
pearls  and  other  precious  things  that  fell  from  his  lips,  and 
watched,  in  reverent  admiration,  every  flash  of  his  clear  gray 
eyes,  for  I  was  enthusiastic,  and  in  my  teens.  He  did  not 
speak  much,  and  his  utterance  was  low-toned  and  rapid,  with 
a  certain  thickness,  as  if  the  tongue  were  too  large  for  the 
mouth.  I  found  afterwards  that  this  was  a  family  character 
istic  ;  and  he  had  a  habit  of  sucking  his  tongue  when  thinking, 
and  at  the  same  time  running  his  fingers  through  his  hair  till 
it  stood  out  in  most  leonine  fashion.  When  writing,  if  his 
ideas  got  entangled,  he  would  work  away  with  his  left  hand, 
dragging  viciously  at  certain  locks  until  the  subject  became 
satisfactorily  "evolved  out  of  his  inner  consciousness." 

Before  uttering  an  amusing  speech  I  noticed  a  most  humor 
ous  scintillation  gleaming  in  his  eyes,  accompanied  by  a  comic 
elevation  of  one  eyebrow  ;  but  he  did  not  strike  me  as  pos 
sessing  the  sarcastic,  searching  expression  that  I  expected.  I 
discovered  afterwards,  that  without  appearing  to  notice  what 
was  going  on  around,  nothing  escaped  him  ;  and  at  the  times 


268  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

when  his  eyes  had  a  far-off  look,  wide-opened  and  almost 
stony  in  their  fixity,  he  was  in  reality  making  mental  notes  of 
his  surroundings. 

How  many  times  have  I  been  betrayed  into  committing  my 
self  in  thoughtless  discourse,  duped  by  his  abstracted  air  ! 
How  often  have  I  indulged  in  sundry  foolish  acts,  and  given 
utterance  to  much  silly  persiflage  and  ill-digested  reasoning 
among  our  circle,  in  the  full  confidence  of  his  being  in  the 
seventh  heaven  of  rapt  reverie,  to  find  him  suddenly  rising  up, 
shaking  his  mane  like  a  lion  from  his  slumbers,  and,  with  a 
face  radiant  with  mischief  and  fun,  recapitulating  all  my  girlish 
"  slip-slop,"  twisting  and  turning  it  into  the  most  unexpectedly 
distorted  shapes,  and  tacking  on  to  it  a  running  commentary 
of  witty  criticisms. 

He  never  thought  himself  too  great  a  genius  to  enter  into 
our  games,  but  he  somehow  always  contrived  to  transfuse  such 
a  tone  of  cleverness  and  depth  into  them  that  they  became 
"  keen  encounters  of  our  wits,"  and  we  were  all  put  on  our 
mettle  to  play  up  to  the  subtle  spirit  with  which  the  master 
mind  impregnated  the  most  sterile  matter.  How  proud  I  used 
to  feel  whenever  I  had  said  a  better  thing  than  usual  to  get  an 
approving  smile  or  word  from  our  maestro  !  The  first  time  he 
thus  noticed  me  is  marked  with  a  white  stone  in  my  memory. 
A  number  of  us  were  playing  the  simple  game  of  "  How, 
when,  and  where  do  you  like  it  ? "  The  word  given  was 
"  scull,"  and  the  object  is  to  puzzle  the  querist  by  the  several 
meanings  given  to  the  word.  Frederick  Dickens  was  the 
questioner,  and  I  gave,  in  reply  to  "  How  I  liked  it  ?  "  "  With 
the  accompaniment  of  a  fine  organ."  2d.  "  When  ?  "  "  When 
youth  is  at  the  helm  and  pleasure  at  the  prow."  3d. 
"  Where  ?  "  "  Where  wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along  his 
silver  winding  way." 

Dickens  rose  and  came  over  to  me,  saying  laughingly,  "  Of 
course,  little  goose,  your  answers  betrayed  the  word  to  the 
most  simple  comprehension,  but  they  were  good  answers  and 
apt  quotations  nevertheless,  and  I  think  it  would  add  to  the 
interest  of  the  game  if  we  all  sharpened  our  wits,  and  tried  to 


REMINISCENCES  OF  DICKENS.  269 

give  a  poetical  tone  to  it  by  good  quotations  as  answers." 
After  this  time  we  had  to  read  up  to  keep  pace  with  the  fund 
of  quaint  sayings  he  introduced  into  this  pastime. 

Another  game  was  nothing  but  a  series  of  leading  questions, 
which  we  called  "Animal,  mineral,  or  vegetable."  The  first 
time  we  played  it,  Mr.  Dickens  was  obliged  to  give  up,  after 
exhausting  himself  in  questioning.  He  had  arrived  at  the 
facts  that  the  article  in  question  was  vegetable,  mentioned  in 
mythological  history,  and  belonging  to  a  queen,  and  that  the 
destiny  was  pathetic.  After  a  display  of  his  classic  lore  in 
attaining  this  much  he  gave  it  up,  and  was  good-naturedly  in 
dignant  at  finding  the  subject  over  which  he  had  wasted  so 
much  time  and  erudition  was  one  of  the  tarts  mentioned  in  the 
rhymes  — 

"The  Queen  of  Hearts  she  made  some  tarts, 

Upon  a  summer's  day  ; 
The  Knave  of  Hearts  he  stole  the  tarts, 
And  took  them  quite  away." 

We  promised  in  future  to  abstain  from  such  unworthy  sub 
jects  ;  but  on  another  occasion  he  pulled  my  hair  in  pretended 
wrath,  because  I  puzzled  him  with  "  The  wax  with  which 
Ulysses  stuffed  the  ears  of  his  crew  to  prevent  them  hearing 
the  songs  of  the  sirens." 

Sometimes  we  played  vingt-et-un,  and  he  was  as  playfully 
eager,  as  full  of  noisy  glee,  as  the  veriest  schoolboy.  One 
evening  his  friend  Mr.  M made  his  appearance  in  a  pre 
posterously  long  stock  which  he  evidently  thought  was  per 
fectly  chic.  Dickens  eyed  it  for  some  time  with  a  perplexed 
and  thoughtful  demeanor. 

"  Hollo,  Charley  !  "  said  Mr.  M.,  "  what  are  you  staring  at 
my  stock  for  ?  " 

Dickens  threw  into  his  countenance  an  exaggerated  expres 
sion  of  relief  from  a  harassing  doubt,  and  cried  — 

"  Stock  ?  Oh,  I'm  glad  to  know  it  is  meant  for  a  stock  ;  it 
was  so  painful  to  think  you  might  have  intended  it  for  a  waist 
coat." 

A  great  deal  of   amusement  was  excited  by  Mrs.  Charles 


2/0  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Dickens  perpetrating  the  most  absurd  puns,  which  she  did 
with  a  charming  expression  of  innocence  and  deprecation  of 
her  husband's  wrath  ;  while  he  tore  his  hair  and  writhed  as  if 
convulsed  with  agony.  He  used  to  pretend  to  be  utterly  dis 
gusted,  although  he  could  neither  resist  laughter  at  the  puns 
nor  at  the  pretty  comic  moue  she  made  (with  eyes  turned  up 
till  little  of  the  whites  were  visible)  after  launching  forth  one 
of  these  absurdities. 

Every  autumn  it  was  Mr.  Dickens's  custom  to  take  his 
family  to  Broadstairs,  and  shortly  after  I  became  acquainted 
with  him  the  usual  flitting  took  place.  He  begged  my  friends 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  S to  take  a  house  there  also,  and  offered  to 

look  for  one  for  them.  This  they  agreed  to,  and  a  few  days 
after  he  wrote  the  following  note  to  Mr.  M :  — 

''DEVONSHIRE  TERRACK,  Thursday,  \^th  Aiigust. 

"  MY  DEAR  M ,  —  The  only  intelligence  we  can  get 

about  the  houses  on  the  Terrace  at  Broadstairs  is,  that  there 
are  two  to  let  or  nearly  to  let,  one  (certainly  empty  at  this 
moment)  a  little  to  the  left  of  our  old  house,  supposing  you 
were  looking  out  of  the  window  upon  the  blue,  the  fresh,  and 
ever  free  ;  the  other  a  little  more  to  the  left  still,  and  com 
monly  called  or  known  by  the  name  of  Barfield's  Cottage. 

"  This  Barfield's  Cottage  will  be  vacant  (we  are  told)  upon 
the  twenty-first.  But  the  devil-  of  it  is  that  at  this  season  of 
the  year  they  won't  keep  the  houses  even  a  week  for  you,  and 
consequently  Barfield's  Cottage  is  meat  for  our  masters.  The 

other  house  must  be  either  the  one  which  S looked  at,  or 

one  close  to  and  exactly  like  it. 

"  If  he  wants  to  get  up  a  picture  of  this  last-named  tenement 
in  his  mind,  ask  him  if  he  don't  remember  going  with  Kate 
and  me  and  the  man  from  the  library  to  look  at  a  house,  and 
stealing  in  at  the  kitchen-door  past  the  water-butt  and  coal- 
cellar.  That  house  was  next  the  library  on  the  side  nearest 
London  —  the  library  being  between  it  and  ours.  I  am  not 
sure  that  this  particular  house  is  the  same,  but  it  must  be 
either  the  next  door  to  it,  or  the  next  door  but  one.  The 


REMINISCENCES  OF  DICKENS.  2/1 

terms  I  don't  know,  but  they  are  certainly  not  more  than  five 
guineas  per  week,  I  should  say. 

"  In  short,  nothing  can  be  done  without  going  down  in  per 
son,  for  the  place  is  very  full  indeed,  and  the  people  wildly 
rapacious  and  rearing  up  on  their  hind  legs  for  money.  The 
clay  to  go  down  upon  is  a  Monday,  for  there  is  a  chance  of 
some  family  having  gone  out  on  that  morning,  it  being  a  great 
departure  day.  If  you  put  all  this  into  your  partner's  pipe,  tell 
him  that  I  wish,  for  his  sake  and  my  own  too,  I  could  fill  it 
with  more  substantial  matter." 

Shortly  after  this  my  friends  took  the  house,  and  I  accom 
panied  them  as  a  visitor,  to  my  intense  delight,  for  I  hoped  to 
be  privileged  to  daily  enjoyment  of  the  presence  of  this  man 
of  genius.  And  now  began  a  time  which  I  look  back  to  as 
almost  the  brightest  in  my  life,  as  far  as  enjoyment  went. 
Every  day  was  spent  by  our  family  and  the  Dickens's  together, 
either  doing  the  usual  seaside  recreations,  or  at  each  other's 
houses.  In  the  familiarity  which  such  friendly  association 
engenders  we  got  up  ridiculous  relations  to  each  other.  He 
pretended  to  be  engaged  in  a  semi-sentimental,  semi-jocular, 
and  wholly  nonsensical  flirtation  with  me  as  well  as  with  Milly 

T ,  one  of  my  friends,  a  charming  woman  of  a  certain  age, 

and  we  on  our  side  acted  mutual  jealousy  towards  each  other  •, 
and  Mrs.  Charles  Dickens  entered  into  the  fun  with  great 
gusto  and  good-humor.  My  friend  Milly  he  called  his 
u  charmer,"  "  the  beloved  of  his  soul,"  and  I  was  his  "  fair 
enslaver "  and  his  "  queen."  We  generally  addressed  each 
other  in  the  old  English  style  of  euphuism,  and  he  would  ask 
us  to  dance  in  such  bombastic  nonsense  as  — 

"  Wilt  tread  a  measure  with  me,  sweet  lady  ?  Fain  would  I 
thread  the  mazes  of  this  saraband  with  thee." 

"  Aye,  fair  sir,  that  I  will  right  gladly  ;  in  good  sooth  I  '11 
never  say  thee  nay." 

I  need  not  say  that  the  stately  and  courtly  gravity  with 
which  we  "  trod  our  measure  "  was  truly  edifying,  and  the 


2/2  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

spectators  were  convulsed  at  the  wonderful  "  Turvey-drop  " 
deportment  of  Mr.  Dickens,  and  the  Malvolio-like  conceit  he 
contrived  to  call  into  his  countenance. 

"  I  think  I  could  act  a  pompous  ass  to  perfection  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  after  one  of  these  dances.  "  Let  us  get  up  some 
charades,  and  test  our  histrionic  powers." 

After  some  discussion  we  fixed  on  the  word  "  Pompadour," 
and  he  took  the  part  of  Louis  XIV.  '  Milly  was  a  Comtesse 
de  Soubise,  and  I  as  Madame  Pompadour  was  supposed  to  be 
jealous  of  her  with  good  cause.  The  first  syllable  represented 
the  stiff  etiquette  and  tiresome  observances  of  the  court  of  the 
Grand  Monarque,  and  was  acted  entirely  in  pantomimic 
action.  The  second  syllable  (converted  into  adore)  was  a  love 
scene,  in  which  Louis  did  a  deal  of  inflated  bombast  in  the 
ancient  French  style  of  love-making  to  the  rival  comtesse. 
The  whole  was  completed  by  the  wily  mistress  obtaining  by 
stratagem  a  lettre  de  cachet  from  the  king,  and  consigning  the 
rival  to  the  Bastile,  while  the  triumph  of  Pompadour  was  com 
plete.  This  was  all  acted  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  without 
any  costume  but  such  drapery  and  finery  as  could  be  obtained 
readily  and  twisted  into  use.  Mr.  Dickens  was  very  grandiose, 
although  he  figured  in  a  lady's  broad-brimmed  hat,  pinned  up 
on  one  side,  and  a  rather  draggled  feather  stuck  nearly  on 
end,  which  which  would  keep  turning  round  the  wrong  way. 

We  rarely  heard  Dickens  attempt  punning,  for  which  he 
professed  profound  contempt,  but  on  one  occasion  he  was  ac 
cused  of  irreverence  in  making  one.  A  game  of  whist  was 
going  on,  and  one  of  the  ladies  who  was  not  playing  (I  think 
it  was  his  mother,  but  am  not  positive)  fell  into  a  slight  nap  in 
the  background.  At  the  last  trick  of  the  game,  one  of  the 
party  banged  down  the  King  of  Trumps  in  such  loud  glee  as 
to  awaken  this  lady,  who  started  up  with  a  scared  look  of 
bewilderment.  Dickens  turned  round  laughingly,  and  said, 
"  Don't  be  alarmed,  but  you  look  awfully  like  one  of  the  de 
funct  on  the  day  of  judgment  !  "  "  Why  ?  "  Because  you 
were  awakened  by  the  sound  of  the  last  trump" 

One  night  a  gentleman  visitor  insisted  on  singing  "  By  the 


REMINISCENCES  OF  DICKENS.  2/3 

sad  sea  waves,"  which  he  did  vilely,  and  he  wound  up  his  per 
formance  by  a  most  unexpected  and  misplaced  embellishment, 
called  in  music  "  a  turn."  Dickens  was  perfectly  excruciated 
during  this  trying  ordeal,  but  managed  to  preserve  a  decorous 
attention  and  solemnity  of  visage  till  this  sound  met  his  ears, 
when  he  turned  upon  .me  a  look  of  utter  astonishment. 
"  Whatever  did  he  mean  by  that  extraneous  effort  of  melody  ?  " 
I  whispered.  "  Oh,  that's  quite  in  rule  —  according  to  the 
proverb  —  '  When  things  are  at  their  worst  they  always  take 
a  turn?  "  answered  he  with  imperturbable  gravity.  I  unfor 
tunately  exploded  into  a  giggle,  and  greatly  offended  the 
singer. 

About  this  time  there  was  a  rumor  flying  about  that  Dickens 
had  gone  insane,  at  which  he  was  much  annoyed.  We  were 
all  walking  on  the  beach  one  day  accompanied  by  a  gentleman, 

a  Mr.  F ,  a  sculptor,  who  had  only  come  down  on  a  visit  to 

Mr.  Dickens  the  day  before.  This  gentleman  was,  to  use  the 
mildest  term,  very  eccentric,  and  did  the  most  unaccountable 
things  in  moments  of  impulse.  He  was  several  yards  in  front 
of  us,  and  was  behaving  in  a  very  flighty  manner.  Some 
strangers  passed  him,  and  as  they  neared  us  stood  to  look 
after  him.  "  Ah,"  said  one,  with  a  lugubrious  look  and  a  Lord- 
Burleigh  shake  of  the  head,  "  you  see  it 's  quite  true  !  Poor 
Boz  !  What  a  pity  to  see  such  a  wreck  !  "  Dickens  scowled 

at  them,  and  then  called  out,  "Hollo,  F ,  I  wish  you'd 

moderate  your  insane  gambolings  !  There  are  fools  among 
the  British  public  who  might  mistake  you  for  me." 

These  representatives  of  the  British  public  slunk  away,  fol 
lowed  by  the  glowing  anger  of  Dickens's  eyes,  which  seemed 
to  shrivel  them  into  nothingness.  Dickens  walked  on  with  in 
flated  nostrils  and  compressed  lips  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then  burst  out  laughing.  "  I  am  afraid  I  was  rather  down  on 
those  poor  beggars,"  said  he,  "  but  I  don't  like  that  ambling 
ass  to  be  taken  for  me." 

Next  day  he  was  sitting  with  us,  when  Mr.  M ran  in 

with  consternation  in  every  feature,  calling  out,  "  Charley  !  for 

God's  sake  come  and  put  a  stop  to  this  !  There  's  F has 

18 


2/4  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

walked  out  of  the  sea,  without  a  rag  on  him,  right  among  the 
people  on  the  beach.  You  never  saw  such  a  scatter  in  your 
life  ! " 

Dickens  jammed  his  hat  on  his  head  with  a  muttered 

"  D d  fool  !  "  and  tore  down-stairs  with  M ;  he  came 

back  in  about  half  an  hour,  and  Mr.  S asked  him  jokingly 

how  he  had  disposed  of  the  naked  truth  ? 

"  I  never  dreamt  in  childhood's  hour,"  said  Dickens,  com 
mencing  poetically  and  then  sinking  suddenly  into  prose, 
"  that  I  should  ever  turn  myself  into  a  preambulating  screen  ; 
but  the  magnanimous  way  in  which  I  have  sacrificed  my  self- 
esteem  in  bobbing  and  sidling  about  with  my  coat-tails  spread 
out  to  shield  this  rampant  Achilles  from  the  chaste  eyes  of 
the  fair  sect  and  the  innocent  babbies,  deserves  the  thanks  of 
the  nation  !  I  told  him  that  was  not  the  place  for  ' poses- 
plastiques ; '  but  he  was  so  enthusiastically  intent  on  doing 
the  antique  that  I  could  only  frantically,  and  I  may  say  he 
roically,  interpose  my  devoted  body  between  him  and  the 
spectators."  This  was  all  nonsense,  as  he  told  us  afterwards 

that  he  found  F had  returned  into  the  water  as  fast  as  he 

got  out,  and  he  had  no  occasion  to  be  a  screen. 

Why  is  it  that  by  the  sea  one  loses  an  immense  deal  of 
decency  ?  Is  it  that  the  contemplation  of  the  "  vasty  deep  " 
enlarges  and  expands  the  ideas  so  much  that  they  roam  out 
into  space,  and  become  lost  in  its  immensity?  Nobody 
seemed  profoundly  shocked  at  this  affair,  which  was  treated 
quite  jocularly. 

A  few  days  after  this  Milly  accompanied  me  to  bathe, 
though  she  did  not  enter  the  water  herself.  After  I  had  got 
out  and  was  dressing,  we  heard  a  splash  from  the  next  ma 
chine,  succeeded  by  spluttering  and  panting,  interspersed  with 

expletives  and  one  or  two  "  D ns  "  at  the  coldness  of  the 

water.  We  emerged  from  our  car,  and,  on  crossing  the  plank 
which  united  a  long  row  of  machines,  the  first  object  that  met 
our  eyes  was  Dickens  disporting  in  the  waves  within  six 
yards  of  us,  but  with  only  his  head  and  shoulders  visible. 

"  What !  my  charmers  ?  "   he   called   out,    with    chattering 


REMINISCENCES  OF  DICAENS.  2?$ 

teeth.  "  Behold  a  man  who  has  taken  a  fatal  plunge  in  the 
briny,  and  wishes  himself  well  out  of  it.  A  crab  is  attempting 
to  seize  my  great  toe,  so  I  'm  off.  Ta  ta  till  we  meet  again  at 
Philippi,"  and  off  he  went  swimmingly. 

Like  all  poetical  natures  he  delighted  in  gazing  at  the  sea. 
He  would  remain  for  hours  as  if  entranced  ;  with  a  rapt,  im 
movable,  sphinx-like  calm  on  his  face,  and  that  far-off  look  in 
his  magnificent  eyes,  totally  forgetful  of  everything,  and  ab 
stracted  from  us  all.  We  always  respected  his  isolation,  and 
carefully  kept  aloof. 

I  drew  a  sketch  of  him  during  one  of  these  meditative 

moods,  and  showed  it  to  a  Miss  F who  was  staying  with 

them.  This  young  lady  had  testified  a  good  deal  of  petty 
jealousy  at  the  notice  which  Dickens  took  of  me,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  wished  to  make  a  little  mischief  between  us,  as  she 
told  him  privately  that  evening  that  I  had  been  caricaturing 
him.  I  was  surprised  to  find  him  looking  stony  and  stand-off 
when  I  met  him  again,  and,  greatly  hurt,  I  went  to  Mrs. 
Charles  Dickens  (who  was  always  kind  and  good-natured), 
and  asked  her  what  I  had  done  to  offend  him. 

"  Well,"  she  answered  gently,  "  Charles  is  annoyed  at  your 

having  drawn  a  caricature  of  him.  Miss  F told  him  she 

had  seen  a  horrid  caricature  you  had  made  of  him." 

I  hastily  took  the  sketch  from  between  the  leaves  of  the 
book  I  was  carrying,  and  handed  it  to  her  without  a  word. 

"  Why,  this  is  very  like  him,"  she  cried  in  pleased  surprise. 
"  This  is  not  a  caricature,  but  a  very  nice  sketch.  Will  you 
give  it  to  me  ?  I  should  like  Charles  to  see  it,  and  he  will 

soon  be  convinced  that  Miss  F was  mistaken.  Thank 

you,  dear,"  and  she  kissed  me  kindly.  "  Don't  let  the  tears 
come  into  your  eyes  about  such  nonsense  ;  it  will  be  all  right, 
I  promise  you." 

She  went  off  with  it ;  and  the  same  evening  I  saw  him 
again,  with  no  cloud  on  his  brow  and  as  pleasant  as  ever. 

"  Mr.  Dickens,"  I  said,  with  tears  in  my  voice  (as  the 
French  say),  "  how  could  you  think  I  would  presume  to  carica 
ture  you  ?  That  odious  girl  put  that  into  your  head  because 


276  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

she  can't  bear  you  to  be  amiable  to  any  one  but  herself. 
Horrid,  red-haired  thing  !  I  can't  think  why  you  like  her  !  " 

"  My  enslaver,"  he  replied,  with  the  odd  twinkle  of  the  eye, 
"  I  always  loved  gingerbread,  even  after  childhood's  hours  had 
vanished  into  the  dim  past,  and  her  tresses  awaken  fond 
memories  of  my  lollipop  days  ;  but  I  don't  like  her  ginger  as  I 
do  your  gold,"  and  he  pulled  my  long  yellow  curls  playfully  as 
he  passed  on. 

The  next  night  we  were  all  assembled  on  the  little  pier  or 
jetty  which  ran  out  into  the  sea,  with  an  upright  spar  fixed  at 
the  extreme  end.  At  the  beginning  was  a  railed-off  space  with 
seats,  which  he  called  the  family  pew.  Mr.  Dickens  was  in 
high  spirits,  and  enjoyed  the  darkness  of  the  evening,  because 
he  escaped  the  curious  eyes  of  the  Broadstairs  population. 
We  had  a  quadrille  all  to  ourselves,  the  music  being  Frederick 
Dickens's  whistling,  and  Mr.  Dickens's  accompaniment  on  his 
pocket-comb.  We  then  strolled  farther  down  to  watch  by  the 
fading  light  the  tide  come  rippling  in.  The  night  grew  darker, 
starless,  and  moonless  ;  the  only  light  being  a  lingering,  lurid 
gleam,  which  touched  the  crest  of  the  waves  with  a  phosphor 
escent  glimmer.  Dickens  seemed  suddenly  to  be  possessed 
with  the  demon  of  mischief  ;  he  threw  his  arm  around  me  and 
ran  me  down  the  inclined  plane  to  the  end  of  the  jetty  till  we 
reached  the  tall  post.  He  put  his  other  arm  round  this,  and 
exclaimed  in  theatrical  tones  that  he  intended  to  hold  me  there 
till  "  the  sad  sea  waves  "  should  submerge  us. 

"  Think  of  the  sensation  we  shall  create  !  Think  of  the 
road  to  celebrity  which  you  are  about  to  tread  !  No,  not 
exactly  to  tread,  but  to  flounder  into  !  " 

Here  I  implored  him  to  let  me  go,  and  struggled  hard  to 
release  myself. 

"  Let  your  mind  dwell  on  the  column  in  the  "  Times " 
wherein  will  be  vividly  described  the  pathetic  fate  of  the  lovely 
E.  P.,  drowned  by  Dickens  in  a  fit  of  dementia  !  Don't 
struggle,  poor  little  bird  ;  you  are  powerless  in  the  claws  of 
such  a  kite  as  this  child  !  " 

By  this  time  the  gleam  of  light  had  faded  out,  and  the  water 


REMINISCENCES   OF  DICKENS. 

close  to  us  looked  uncomfortably  black.  The  tide  was  coming 
up  rapidly  and  surged  over  my  feet.  I  gave  a  loud  shriek  and 
tried  to  bring  him  back  to  common  sense  by  reminding  him 
that  "  My  dress,  my  best  dress,  my  only  silk  dress,  would  be 
ruined."  Even  this  climax  did  not  soften  him  ;  he  still  went 
on  with  his  serio-comic  nonsense,  shaking  with  laughter  all 
the  time,  and  panting  with  his  struggles  to  hold  me. 

"  Mrs.  Dickens  !  "  a  frantic  shriek  this  time,  for  now  the 
waves  rushed  up  to  my  knees  ;  "  help  me  !  make  Mr.  Dickens 
let  me  go  —  the  waves  are  up  to  my  knees  !  " 

"  Charles  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Dickens,  echoing  my  wild  scream, 
"  how  can  you  be  so  silly  ?  You  will  both  be  carried  off  by 
the  tide  "  (tragically,  but  immediately  sinking  from  pathos  to 
bathos),  "and  you  '11  spoil  the  poor  girl's  silk  dress  !  " 

"  Dress  !  "  cried  Dickens,  with  withering  scorn.  "  Talk  not 
to  me  of  dress  !  When  the  pall  of  night  is  enshrouding  us  in 
Cimmerian  darkness,  when  we  already  stand  on  the  brink  of 
the  great  mystery,  shall  our  thoughts  be  of  fleshly  vanities  ? 
Am  I  not  immolating  a  brand-new  pair  of  patent  leathers  still 
unpaid  for  ?  Perish  such  low-born  thoughts  !  In  this  hour 
of  abandonment  to  the  voice  of  destiny  shall  we  be  held  back 
by  the  puerilities  of  silken  raiment  ?  Shall  leather  or  prunella 
(whatever  that  may  be)  stop  the  bolt  of  Fate  ?  "  with  a  sudden 
parenthetical  sinking  from  bombast  to  familiar  accents,  and 
back  again. 

At  this  point  I  succeeded  in  wresting  myself  free,  and 
scampered  to  my  friends,  almost  crying  with  vexation,  my  only 
silk  dress  clinging  clammily  round  me,  and  streaming  with  salt 

water.  My  chaperone,  Mrs.  S ,  received  me  with  unjust 

severity,  evidently  thinking  I  could  have  got  away  if  I  had 
chosen. 

"  Run  home  at  once,"  she  said  majestically,  "  and  take  off 
your  wet  things.  I  am  surprised  at  you  !  " 

During  this  wrestling  match  between  us,  I  cannot  describe 
the  ridiculous  effect  produced  by  his  "  mouthing "  in  the 
Ercles  vein,  with  now  and  then  a  quick  descent  into  comicality 
—  the  contrast  between  the  stiltified  language,  and  the  gasping 


2/8  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

struggles  caused  by  my  efforts  to  get  free,  his  suppressed 
chuckles  at  my  dismay,  my  wild  appeals,  and  the  expostula 
tions  of  his  wife  and  the  rest,  who  stood  by,  like  the  chorus 
in  a  Greek  play,  powerless  to  help. 

I  went  off,  escorted  by  Frederick  Dickens,  after  hearing 
Mrs.  Charles  say  — 

"  It  was  too  bad  of  you,  Charles  ;  remember  poor  E.  cannot 
afford  to  have  her  dress  destroyed.  Of  course  you  '11  give  her 
another  ?  " 

"  Never  !  "  was  the  reply.  "  I  have  sacrificed  her  finery 
and  my  boots  to  the  infernal  gods.  Kismet  !  It  is  finished  ! 
Eureka  !  etc.,  etc. ;  and  now  I  go  to  tug  myself  black  in  the 
face  getting  off  my  pedal  covers." 

Dickens  was  rather  reckless  in  his  fun  sometimes,  and  my 
wardrobe  suffered  woefully  in  consequence.  There  was  a  sort 
of  promontory  stretching  out  into  the  sea,  where,  in  rough 
weather,  the  waves  used  to  rush  up  several  feet,  and  come 
splashing  down  like  a  shower-bath.  On  two  occasions,  when 
I  had  thoughtlessly  ventured  near  this  spot,  he  seized  me  and 
ran  me,  nolens  volens,  right  under  the  cataract,  to  the  irretriev 
able  ruin  of  two  bonnets  of  frail  fabric,  and  my  slender  purse 
was  taxed  to  the  utmost  to  replace  them. 

It  was  arranged  that  we  should  make  an  excursion  to  Peg- 
well  Bay,  and  lunch  at  the  small  hotel  on  prawns  and  bottled 
porter  ;  and  on  a  lovely  morning  two  open  carriages  stood  at 
our  door  ready  to  receive  us.  Mrs.  Dickens  and  two  of  her 
lady  visitors  had  walked  to  our  house,  and  we  were  only  wait 
ing  for  Mr.  Dickens  and  some  gentlemen  friends.  Presently 
he  came  in  in  high  glee,  flourishing  a  yard  of  ballads,  which  he 
had  just  bought  from  a  beggar  in  the  street. 

"  Look  here  !  fair  dames  and  damosels,"  he  cried  exultingly. 
"  All  for  one  penny  !  invested  by  yours  truly  for  the  delecta 
tion  of  the  company.  One  song  alone  is  worth  a  Jew's  eye  — • 
quite  new  and  original  —  the  subject  being  the  interesting  an 
nouncement  about  our  Gracious  Queen.  It  is  in  the  vulgar 
tongue,  but  you  are  all  so  familar  with  i  Nix  my  Dolly,'  and 
other  songs  of  that  kind,  that  I  dare  say  you  will  not  be 
shocked." 


REMINISCENCES   OF  DICKENS.  2/9 

He  commenced  to  give  us  a  specimen,  but  after  hearing  one 
verse  there  arose  a  cry  of  universal  execration.  The  song 
was  founded  on  the  official  notice  that  a  prince  or  princess 
might  shortly  be  expected,  and  was  sung  to  the  tune  of  "  The 
King  of  the  Cannibal  Islands."  He  pretended  to  be  vexed  at 
us  "  shutting  him  up,"  said  there  "  was  nothing  wrong  in  it  ; 
he  had  written  a  great  deal  worse  himself,"  and  when  we  were 
going  to  enter  the  carriages  he  said  — 

"  Now,  look  here,  I  give  due  notice  to  all  and  sundry,  that  I 
mean  to  sing  that  song  and  a  good  many  of  the  others  during 
the  ride,  so  those  ladies  who  think  them  vulgar  can  go  in  the 
other  carriage.  I  am  not  going  to  invest  my  hard-earned 
penny  for  nothing." 

I  was  quite  certain  that  Charles  Dickens  was  the  last  man 
in  the  world  to  shock  the  modesty  of  any  female,  and  too  much 
of  a  gentleman  to  do  anything  that  was  annoying  to  us,  but  I 
thought  it  was  as  well  to  go  in  the  other  carriage,  and  so  he 

had  no  ladies  with  him  but  his  wife  and  Mrs.  S .  I  was 

not  sorry  on  the  whole  to  be  where  I  was,  as  I  heard  for  the 
next  half  hour  small  portions  of  those  songs  wafted  on  the 
breeze  to  us  whenever  our  vehicle  approached  near  them,  and 
the  bursts  of  laughter  from  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  the 
mischievous  twinkle  in  Dickens's  eye,  proved  that  he  was  in 
such  a  madcap  mood  that  it  was  as  well  there  were  none  but 
married  people  with  him,  the  subject  being  what  it  was,  of  a 
"  Gampish  "  nature. 

He  was  not  always  full  of  spirits  or  even-tempered :  indeed, 
I  was  somewhat  puzzled  by  the  variability  of  his  moods. 
After  indulging  in  the  greatest  fun  and  familiarity  over-night, 
we  would  sometimes  meet  him  walking  alone,  when  he  would 
look  at  us  with  lack-lustre  eye,  and  pass  on  with  a  hurried 
"  How  d'ye  do  ?  " 

One  day  he  strolled  by  our  window  where  Milly  and  I  were 
standing  on  the  balcony.  He  turned  back,  "  struck  "  an  atti 
tude  (in  actor's  phrase) ;  with  one  hand  on  his  heart,  and  the 
other  upraised,  he  began  mouthing  — 

"  '  'T  is  my  lady,  't  is  my  love.  •  Oh  would  I  were  a  glove  upon 
that  hand,  that  I  might  kiss  that  cheek.'  " 


28O  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

"  Which  of  us  do  you  intend  to  be  the  Juliet  to  your 
Romeo  ?  "  asked  Milly. 

"  Whichever  you  choose,  my  little  dears,"  he  said  non 
chalantly,  and,  touching  his  hat,  sauntered  on. 

The  next  morning  he  came  by  again,  and  found  us  as  be 
fore,  but  he  only  returned  a  sulky  "  How  do  ?  "  and  walked  by. 
Of  course  we  knew  he  was  in  the  midst  of  some  brain-spin 
ning,  and  wanted  to  be  alone.  I  got  to  understand  his  face  so 
well  that  when  I  saw  the  preoccupied  look  I  used  to  pretend 
not  to  see  him  at  all,  so  as  to  spare  him  even  the  trouble  of 
recognizing  me,  and  I  found  he  was  all  the  better  pleased. 

One  night  we  all  went  to  the  Tivoli  Gardens,  a  place  in  the 
style  of  Vauxhall  on  a  small  scale.  There  was  a  covered 
portion  set  apart  for  dancing,  and  we  saw  some  very  respect 
able  people  footing  it  with  great  enjoyment.  We  had  a  con 
sultation  whether  it  would  be  very  infra  dig.  if  the  young 
ones  of  our  party  had  a  private  quadrille  among  themselves, 
and,  as  no  one  knew  us,  we  decided  to  enjoy  ourselves  too. 
^Mr.  Dickens,  meanwhile,  walked  about,  not  venturing  into  the 
glare  of  the  lights,  as  his  face  was  too  well  known  for  him  to 
preserve  his  incognito.  There  was  a  girl  dancing  near  us, 
who  had  long  plaited  tails  of  hair  down  her  back,  sandaled 
shoes,  and  frilled  drawers,  to  whom,  by  universal  acclamation, 
we  affixed  the  name  of  Morleena  Kenwigs.  Dickens  was 
amused  at  the  resemblance,  and  was  making  a  laughing  re 
mark  on  her,  when  a  man  came  close  to  him  and  stared  know 
ingly  and  rather  offensively  in  his  face.  Dickens  moved  away, 
but  this  bore  followed  him,  glowering  with  all  his  eyes,  and 
with  ears  on  full  cock  to  catch  every  stray  word.  At  last 
Dickens  lost  patience,  and  turning  suddenly,  confronted  him 
with  — 

"  Pray,  sir,  are  you  a  native  of  this  place  ?  " 

"  N  —  no,  sir,"  stammered  the  individual. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  "  returned  Dickens,  with  elabo 
rate  politeness.  "  I  fancied  I  could  detect  broad-stares  on 
your  very  face." 

I  need  not  say  that  the  unhappy  wight  vanished  into  the 
shades  of  evening. 


REMINISCENCES  OF  DICKENS.  28 1 

One  morning  at  his  own  house  Dickens  was  talking  on  art 
to  a  gentleman  present,  and  they  discussed  the  statue  of 
Venus,  which  Byron  raves  about  in  his  "  Pilgrimage."  Dick 
ens  objected  to  the  expressions  used  by  Byron,  "  Dazzled  and 
drunk  with  beauty,"  "  The  heart  reels  with  its  fullness,"  etc., 
as  being  an  unpoetical  metaphor,  and  said  it  must  have  been 
written  tipsily,  under  the  influence  of  that  beverage  (gin-and- 
water)  which  sometimes  inspired  this  great  poet.  I  defended 
the  verse,  and  Dickens  rose  up,  pushed  his  hands  through  his 
flowing  locks  so  as  to  give  them  their  most  weird  look, 
turned  down  his  shirt-collar,  slapped  his  brow,  and  exclaimed, 
in  the  Bombastes  Furioso  style  — 

"  Stand  back  !  I  am  suddenly  seized  with  the  divine  afflatus. 
Don't  disturb  me  till  I  have  given  birth  to  my  grand  concep 
tions." 

He  took  out  his  pencil,  and  finding  there  was  no  paper  in 
the  room,  he  stalked  with  grotesquely  melo-dramatic  air  to  the 
window,  and  wrote  on  the  white  shutter.  Frederick  Dickens 
copied  the  writing  afterwards  for  me,  and  it  was  as  fol 
lows  :  — 

LINES,  AFTER  BYRON,  TO  E.  P . 

"O,  maiden,  of  the  amber-dropping  hair, 
May  I,  Byronically,  thy  praises  utter? 
Drunk  with  thy  beauty,  tell  me,  may  I  dare 
To  sing  thy  paeans  borne  upon  a  shutter  ?" 

We  were  strolling  one  day  on  the  sands,  and  stood  to  watch 
the  gambols  of  his  children  at  play  with  the  little  Macreadys. 
They  had  built  a  mimic  fort,  and  young  Macready  was  defend 
ing  it  against  a  storming  party  headed  by  Charley  Dickens. 
The  besieged  Castellan  threw  himself  into  an  attitude  of 
defiance,  with  head  erect,  and  his  sand-spade  held  as  a  trench 
ant  blade.  Mr.  Dickens  burst  into  one  of  his  hearty  laughs, 
and  pointing  to  the  boy,  exclaimed  —  "  f  Lay  on,  Macduff  !  and 
dashed  be  he  who  first  cries,  Hold,  enough  !  9  Did  you  ever 
see  such  a  miniature  of  his  pater  in  Macbeth  ?  '  It 's  a  wise 
child  that  knows  his  own  father,'  but  there's  no  mistake  about 
the  parentage  here." 


282  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

"  I  suppose  he  naturally  imitates  his  father  after  seeing  him 
act." 

"  No,  that  can't  be,  because  Macready  carefully  prevents 
his  children  knowing  that  he  is  an  actor.  I  don't  think  they 
have  ever  entered  a  theatre." 

"  Is  he  ashamed  of  his  profession  ?" 

"  No.  But  he  wisely  thinks  that  they  may  misunderstand  his 
position.  It  is  because  he  takes  such  an  elevated  view  of  his 
art  that  he  fears  it  being  misrepresented  to  them.  He  thinks, 
and  rightly  too,  that  there  is  no  small  merit  in  being  able  to 
interpret  properly  the  conceptions  of  a  great  mind  ;  and  he 
who  gives  breathing  and  moving  life,  who  embodies  with 
reality,  and  stamps  with  individuality,  the  poet's  aerial  crea 
tions,  must  be  himself  endowed  with  some  of  this  majestic 
light  by  reflection.  He  fears  that  servants,  or  such-like,  may 
speak  of  acting  to  his  children  in  such  a  way  as  to  impress  on 
their  small  minds  a  low  idea  of  a  profession  which  he  believes 
to  be  so  full  of  dignity  and  moving  power  when  nobly  4  acted  ' 
up  to.  I  hope  the  time  is  past  when  actors  were  ranked  as 
vagabonds  and  authors  as  Grub-street  hacks,  cringing  in 
servile  submission  to  truculent  publishers,  or  dangling  in 
search  of  a  dinner  in  the  ante-room  of  some  addle-headed 
nobleman.  If  books  enlighten  the  understanding,  so  likewise 
the  stage  has  its  purpose,  next  to  the  pulpit,  to  elevate  and 
refine  by  placing  more  palpably  and  forcibly  before  us  the 
grandeur  of  human  passions." 

"  I  know  one  instance  among  many  in  which  the  stage  pro 
duced  an  effect  which  no  homily  or  sermon  ever  had  been 
capable  of  doing  to  the  individual  I  speak  of.  He  accom 
panied  me  to  see  Charles  Kean  in  the  drama  of  '  Faust,'  in 
which  he  acted  Mephistopheles  so  artistically.  There  was 
one  scene  where  a  riotous  mob  of  graceless  German  students 
(under  the  influence  of  lager-beer,  I  presume)  are  heard  in  the 
distance  roaring  their  songs  of  wassail.  Mephisto.  listened 
with  a  sardonic  grin  of  approval  on  his  demoniac  phiz,  and 
said  gloatingly  words  something  like  these  :  '  Go  on,  my  fine 
fellows,  sing  and  shout,  and  drink,  in  your  delightful  exuber- 


REMINISCENCES  OF  DICKENS.  283 

ance  of  animal  spirits.  It  refreshes  me  to  hear  you.  Go  on, 
for  you  are  all  fast  coming  my  way  ! '  My  friend,  who  wa-s  a 
young  '  sawbones,'  told  me  a  thrill  of  horror  ran  through  him, 
and  he  was  struck  by  a  conviction  of  the  consequences  of 
sinful  indulgence  such  as  he  had  never  felt  before.  He  was 
quite  sober  and  thoughtful  for  some  little  time  after." 

Dickens  listened  with  his  usual  attention  and  searching 
fixity  of  eye,  and  then  said,  smilingly  — 

"  I  'm  afraid  that  youth  was  open  to  conviction  only  through 
his  skin.  Nothing  but  fire  and  brimstone  (minus  the  treacle) 
would  keep  him  in  order.  Where  the  spiritual  nature  is  low 
one  is  obliged  to  threaten  the  rod-in-pickle." 

My  father  was  a  Scottish  author  of  considerable  reputation, 
and  had  died  suddenly  at  the  age  of  forty-two  of  apoplexy, 
when  I  was  only  twelve  years  old.  I  lent  Mrs.  Dickens  some 
volumes  of  his  writings  about  this  time,  and  she  expressed  to 
me  how  delighted  she  was  in  their  perusal.  In  my  presence 
she  asked  Mr.  Dickens  to  read  them.  He  looked  his  distaste 
at  the  idea,  and  when  she  pressed  him  "  just  to  read  one  tale, 
such  a  beautifully  written  one,  and  very  short,"  he  turned  and 
walked  off  abruptly,  muttering  —  "  I  hate  Scotch  stories,  and 
everything  else  Scotch."  I  thought  this  was  very  unkind  to 
his  wife  as  well  as  to  me,  as  she  was  Scotch  too.  She  colored 
up,  but  laughed  it  off. 

There  were  times  when  we  gave  Mr.  Dickens  "  a  wide 
berth,"  and  Milly  and  I  have  often  run  round  corners  to  get 
out  of  his  way,  when  we  thought  he  was  in  one  of  these  moods, 
which  we  could  tell  by  one  glance  at  his  face.  His  eyes  were 
always  like  "  danger  lamps,"  and  warned  people  to  clear  the 
line  for  fear  of  collision.  We  felt  we  had  to  do  with 
a  genius,  and  in  the  throes  and  agonies  of  bringing  forth 
his  conceptions,  we  did  not  expect  him  to  submit  to  be 
interrupted  by  triflers  like  ourselves  :  at  these  times  I  confess 
I  was  horribly  afraid  of  him.  I  told  him  so,  to  his  great 
amusement. 

"  Why,  there  's  nothing  formidable  about  me  !  " 

"  Is  n't  there  ?  "  I  answered.     "  You  look  like  a  forest  lion 


284  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

with  a  shaggy  mane  at  these  seasons  ;  and  I  always  think  of 
the  words  — 

'  He  roared  so  loud,  and  looked  so  wondrous  grim, 
His  very  shadow  dared  not  follow  him.'  " 

He  laughed  aloud,  and  said,  "  What !  do  you  play  shadow 
to  my  lion  ?  Nay,  then,  as  Bottom  the  weaver  says,  '  I  must, 
aggravate  my  voice,  I  will  roar  you  as  gently  as  any  suckling 
dove.' "  After  this  I  did  not  feel  quite  so  frightened  of  him, 
though  I  got  out  of  his  way  all  the  same. 

On  another  day  Milly  and  I  were  on  the  shore  in  time  to 
see  him  clambering  down  some  rocks  with  his  brother  Fred. 
They  came  towards  us  laughing,  and  Dickens,  pointing  to  the 
knees  of  his  trousers  said,  "  Look  at  this  fresh  sacrifice  I  have 
laid  on  your  altar  !  These  good  pants  nearly  destroyed  by 
climbing  up  that  precipitous  cliff  to  carve  your  name  in 
gigantic  letters  upon  a  spot  where  the  tide  never  reaches,  so 
that  you  may  go  down  to  posterity  with  your  name  built  upon 
a  rock  !  " 

"  Did  you  likewise  carve  *  C'harles  Dickens_/^^V  ?  '  "  asked  I. 

"  No,  I  did  not." 

"  Then  you  might  as  well  have  scratched  my  name  on  the 
shifting  sands,  for  all  the  fame  I  shall  ever  attain." 

They  both  walked  on  laughingly,  but  I  never  arrived  at  the 
truth  whether  it  was  Mr.  Dickens  or  his  brother  Fred  who  did 
the  carving.  Certainly,  there  was  my  name  in  letters  a  foot 
long  on  the  very  face  of  the  rock.  Fred  and  I  went  to  look  at 
it  a  year  afterwards,  and  found  it  still  existing. 

At  last  came  the  sad  day  when  we  must  leave  them,  to  re 
turn  to  our  "local  habitations  "  in  smoky  London,  and  I 
parted  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dickens  with  tears  of  regret. 
"  Never  mind,  dear,"  she  said  in  her  sweet  caressing  way, 
"  we  shall  all  meet  again  in  London." 

Alas  !  we  never  met  again  in  the  same  kindly  way.  Every 
thing  was  changed. 

When  the  Dickenses  came  home  we  went  to  luncheon  there, 
and  I  remarked  how  preoccupied  he  looked,  how  changed  in 
manner.  Mrs.  S ,  who  knew  him  better  than  I  did,  was 


REMINISCENCES  OF  DICKENS.  285 

quite  prepared  to  find  him  different  in  London  from  what  he 
was  in  Broadstairs,  but  I  was  very  disappointed.  I  seldom 
saw  him  after  this,  as  he  was  always  full  of  engagements,  but 
Mrs.  Dickens  I  often  met  at  my  friend's  house.  I  went  one 
evening  intending  to  spend  it  with  them,  and  found  Mrs. 

S and  Milly  dressing  to  go  to  a  small  charade  party  at  the 

Dickenses.     Milly  immediately  proposed    to    take    me   with 

them,  but  Mrs.   S said,    looking  puzzled   and    uncertain, 

that  she  feared  Mr.  Dickens  might  think  it  a  liberty  !  "  If  it 
was  anybody  else  but  Charles  Dickens  I  should  not  hesitate 
an  instant,  but  he  is  so  odd  !  One  never  knows  how  he  might 
take  such  a  thing.  Although  I  am  his  daughter's  godmother, 
and  we  are  such  friends,  I  cannot  do  it." 

Mrs.  S mentioned  to  Mrs.  Dickens  how  greatly  it  would 

be  to  my  advantage  (being  a  young  artist  struggling  into 
notice,  and  helping  to  support  my  mother  and  sister)  if  Mr. 
Dickens  would  sit  to  me  for  his  likeness.  With  that  ready 
good-heartedness  which  I  always  found  in  her,  she  immedi 
ately  offered  to  sit  first  herself  as  an  inducement  to  him, 
which  she  kindly  did.  She  wished  it  kept  secret  from  Mr. 
Dickens,  as  she  proposed  to  give  it  to  him  as  a  birthday  gift,  I 
believe.  The  portrait  was  nearly  completed,  and  all  who  saw 
it  thought  it  an  excellent  likeness  ;  it  was  arranged  that  I 
should  bring  it  myself  in  case  he  might  suggest  any  alteration. 
Accordingly  I  went  to  Devonshire  Terrace  in  a  cab  with  my 
picture,  but  found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dickens  were  out,  but  were 
momentarily  expected.  I  was  shown  into  the  dining-room, 
and  requested  by  the  domestic  to  wait,  as  Mrs.  Dickens  ex 
pected  me.  The  cloth  was  laid,  either  for  dinner  or  luncheon. 
I  waited  for  an  hour,  and  at  last  I  heard  the  carriage  draw  up 
to  the  door.  Mrs.  Dickens  came  to  me  with  her  usual  kiss, 
and  "  so  sorry  for  keeping  you  waiting."  It  was  raining  fast, 
and  her  thin  boots  were  wet  with  only  walking  from  the  car 
riage,  so  she  took  them  off  there  and  then,  and  fancying  I  was 
in  a  state  of  suspense,  she  would  not  wait  for  her  slippers,  but 
went  straight  into  the  library  to  Mr.  Dickens  with  the  por 
trait  in  her  hand.  Notwithstanding  the  closed  door,  and  that 


286  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

I  sat  far  from  it  at  the  fire,  I  could  hear  the  tones  of  their 
voices.  Mrs.  Dickens's  expostulatory,  Mr.  Dickens's  im 
peratively  ;  at  last  she  returned,  looking  flurried,  but  trying  to 
put  the  best  face  on  the  matter.  She  made  apologies  for  him, 
"  That  he  was  not  very  well,  and  tired.  She  hoped  I  would 
excuse  him  not  being  able  to  see  me." 

I  faltered  out,  "  Does  he  not  like  the  portrait  ?  " 

"  He  has  net  had  time  to  look  at  it  properly.  Of  course  he 
will  think  it  like.  You  must  n't  mind,  dear,  but  to  tell  the 
truth  he  is  a  little  grumpy  just  now,  but  it  will  be  all  right 
presently.  You  know  a  man  is  always  cross  when  he  has  been 
kept  without  his  dinner.  Won't  you  stay  ?  "  she  added, 
hesitatingly,  and  in  such  a  tone  that  I  knew  she  was  afraid  I 
might. 

I  don't  know  what  I  answered.  I  was  thoroughly  cut  up, 
and  wanted  to  have  a  "  good  cry."  I  broke  from  her  even 
while  she  was  kissing  me,  and  telling  me  she  would  write  and 
let  me  know  how  he  liked  it  ;  she  slid  into  my  hand  a  folded 
piece  of  green  paper,  which  I  knew  was  a  check,  and  which 
I  purposely  dropped  as  I  passed  into  the  hall.  She  came 
after  me  looking  very  vexed,  and  put  it  in  my  reticule,  saying, 
"  For  my  sake  !  "  Glad  to  get  out  of  the  house  I  did  not  stay 
to  discuss  the  point,  but  almost  ran  into  the  rain.  Round  the 
corner  I  found  an  empty  cab,  and  in  it  I  cried  to  my  heart's 
content  all  the  way  home.  I  never  crossed  his  threshold 
again. 

Whether  it  was  really  that  Mr.  Dickens  was  hungry  and 
cross,  or  whether  he  was  annoyed  with  Mrs.  Dickens  for 
having  her  portrait  done  without  his  knowledge  ;  or  whether 
it  was  because  he  did  not  like  the  picture,  I  never  could 
discover.  "  He  was  so  odd,"  was  the  only  explanation  I 
ever  received  from  the  several  "  mutual  "  friends  to  whom 
I  mentioned  the  affair.  Old  Mrs.  Dickens  liked  the  picture 
so  much  that  she  begged  to  have  it  (I  was  told),  and  so  it 
ended.  It  was  some  salve  to  my  amour  propre  that  I  had, 
in  the  same  spring,  a  portrait  of  the  Speaker  Shaw  Lefevre's 
daughter  in  the  Academy,  hung  "  on  the  line,"  and  favorably 


REMINISCENCES   OF  DICKENS.  287 

noticed  by  several  of  the  papers  ;  and  that  it  was  considered 
a  "speaking  "  likeness. 

It  is  not  just  or  satisfactory  to  depict  only  one  side  of  any 
man's  character,  and  Dickens  was  no  faultless  monster.  A 
portrait  is  incomplete  if  painted  (as  Queen  Elizabeth,  of 
glorious  and  despotic  memory,  insisted  on  being  done)  without 
its  proper  proportion  of  shadows.  To  describe  Dickens  as 
always  amiable,  always  just,  and  always  in  the  right,  would  be 
simply  false  and  untrue  to  nature.  It  is  right  to  soften  as 
much  as  possible  all  the  hard  edges  (as  artists  do  their  work 
with  a  brush  called  a  "  sweetener  " ),  and  to  throw  a  shade 
over  the  shortcomings  of  a  truly  great  man,  touching  his 
weaknesses  with  a  tender  and  delicate  hand,  but  speaking 
of  his  acts  as  impartially  as  possible  ;  more  especially  when 
he  is  gone  from  us  into  that  unknown  region  where  we  may  be 
sure  all  is  truth  or  nothing.  After  great  inward  discussion, 
I  feel  that  I  ought  to  shake  off  all  moral  cowardice,  and  speak 
of  Mr.  Dickens  as  he  was  to  me,  "  nothing  extenuate,  nor 
aught  set  down  in  malice  ;  "  it  is  only  justice  to  the  living 
to  be  truthful  to  the  dead.  I  must  entreat  my  readers  to 
absolve  me  of  any  wish  to  obtrude  my  small  identity  in  the 
slightest  degree.  It  is  no  egotism  which  makes  the  pro 
noun  "  I  "  so  often  repeated  in  these  pages,  but  the  impos 
sibility  to  detail  Dickens's  words  or  acts  without  also  telling 
what  led  to  them. 

The  next  occasion  on  which  I  met  Mr.  Dickens  was  at  a 
large  ball,  of  nearly  200  persons,  given  by  a  gentleman  con 
nected  with  me  by  marriage.  He  came  accompanied  by  Mrs. 
Dickens,  his  two  brothers,  Frederick  and  Alfred,  and  Mr. 
Maclise,  the  great  painter,  since  dead.  Mr.  Dickens  looked 
very  handsome,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  himself  immensely  ;  but 
he  never  danced  once  with  me,  and  was  only  coldly  polite, 
which  did  not  increase  my  enjoyment.  He  proposed  the 
health  of  cur  host  at  supper,  in  a  short  speech,  but  with  such 
rapid  utterance  and  in  so  low  a  tone  that  I  scarcely  caught  the 
whole  sense  of  his  words. 

The  only  time  I  ever  felt  cross  with  Mrs.  Dickens  was  on 


288  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

this  evening,  I  was  engaged  to  dance  with  Mr.  Maclise,  and 
he  was  coming  forward  to  claim  me  when  she  interposed  and 
asked  him  to  dance  with  her.  He  told  her  he  was  engaged  to 
me,  but  she  would  take  no  refusal,  and  they  whirled  off  to 
gether.  Frederick  said,  "  What  a  shame  !  "  and  asked  me  to  try 
and  put  up  with  him  instead.  Both  he  and  his  brother  Alfred 
were  very  attentive  to  me,  and  I  danced  with  each  repeatedly. 
Fred  told  me  he  thought  Charles  was  acting  "  very  capri 
ciously,"  and  seemed  sorry  for  me,  as  I  took  it  to  heart ;  but  he 
was  "  odd  sometimes"  The  evening  concluded  with  "  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley,"  danced  in  two  ]ong  double  rows.  It  was 
a  sight  to  see  Maclise  at  one  end  and  Dickens  at  the  other 
rushing  forward  alternately,  both  with  long  locks  flying  free. 
At  one  part  I  had  to  meet  and  perform  the  figure  with  Mr. 
Dickens,  and  he  unbent  a  little,  giving  me  something  of  the 
old  smile,  and  whirling  me  round  with  something  of  the  old 
familiar  style  ;  but,  alas  !  it  was  only  like  a  ghost  of  the  happy 
past,  and  I  could  have  burst  out  crying.  I  had  been  so  proud 
of  the  notice  of  so  great  a  man,  I  had  so  sunned  myself  in  his 
smiles,  that  it  was  like  an  untimely  frost,  come  to  "  nip  my 
buds  from  blowing." 

Next  year  I  was  married,  after  a  long  engagement,  and 
shortly  afterwards  went  to  Broadstairs  with  my  husband.  I 
had  not  expected  to  see  the  Dickenses  there,  as  it  was  late  in 
the  season,  and  I  was  sure  they  would  have  returned.  Fred, 
who  was  a  great  friend  of  my  husband,  soon  found  us  out,  and 
we  were  constantly  together  ;  but  I  kept  aloof  from  his 
brother,  and  only  spoke  to  him  on  one  occasion  during  our 
stay,  which  was  when  we  went,  accompanied  by  Fred,  to  the 
Tivoli  Gardens,  and  Mr.  Dickens  and  his  party  were  there. 
If  I  remember  rightly,  Miss  Hogarth  danced  with  my  husband 
and  I  with  Fred,  in  a  few  quadrilles  made  up  with  their  set. 
Mrs.  Dickens  was  as  kind  as  ever,  and  "  Boz "  danced  with 
her  and  her  sister  alternately,  with  as  much  enjoyment  of  the 
fun  as  any  of  us. 

After  this  I  never  saw  him  but  twice  again  ;  onct.  at  a  con 
cert  where  the  lady  who  afterwards  became  Fred's  wife  per- 


REMINISCENCES  OF  DICKENS,  289 

formed  on  the  piano.  He  was  with  his  wife  and  Maclise,  and 
favored  me  with  his  usual  "  How  d'ye  do  ?  "  en  passant.  The 
last  time  I  ever  saw  him  was  a  few  years  ago,  when  he  gave  a 
reading  of  the  "  Christmas  Carol,"  and  he  was  indeed  mar- 
velously  changed.  Lined  in  face,  and  with  grizzled  beard, 
but  with  even  more  power  than  ever  in  expression,  the  nostril 
still,  like  that  of  the  war-horse,  dilated  and  sensitive.  I  was 
astonished  at  the  wonderful  difference  in  his  voice  and  utter 
ance,  which  was  now  sonorous  and  emphatic.  His  long  career 
of  reading  and  acting  had  completely  cured  the  thickness 
which  I  before  remarked,  and  his  declamation  was  no  longer 
hurried. 

A  great  deal  has  been  said  about  his  hearty  willingness  to 
help  young  struggling  people,  and  his  kindly  feeling  for  gov 
ernesses.  All  I  can  say  is  he  never  helped  me,  though  he  had 
it  in  his  power  to  do  so  to  a  great  extent.  There  was  an 

excellent  lady,  a  friend  of  Mrs.  S ,  whom  he  often  met  at 

her  house,  who  supported  her  step-mother  by  her  salary  as  a 
governess,  and  whom  he  knew  to  be  a  marvel  of  self-denial, 
but  he  never  took  any  notice  of  her  more  than  politeness 
required,  though  she  was  enthusiastically  enraptured  with  him, 
and  a  little  extra  kindness  would  have  been  the  sweetest  drop 
in  the  tasteless  cup  of  her  daily  avocations.  In  1846,  when  I 
had  been  married  about  four  years,  a  young  lady,  only  seven 
teen  years  of  age,  of  very  uncommon  ability  as  an  artist, 
implored  me  to  get  Mr.  Dickens  to  look  at  some  very  clever 
outline  illustrations  she  had  made  of  his  "  Chimes  "  and  the 
"  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,"  hoping  to  excite  his  interest  in  her. 
I  yielded  to  her  solicitations,  but  knowing  how  "  odd "  Mr. 
Dickens  was,  I  wrote  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dickens  requesting  her 
to  use  her  influence  with  him,  and  I  gave  such  an  account  of 
this  young  lady's  praiseworthy  endeavors  to  earn  a  livelihood 
as  would,  I  think,  have  interested  most  people.  I  received 
this  reply  from  Mrs.  Dickens  :  — 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS.  C,  —  Many  thanks  for  your  obliging  note, 
and  interesting  account  of  your  young  friend. 
19 


2gO  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

"  Mr.  Dickens  is  so  very  much  occupied  just  now  that  he 
has  not  as  yet  been  able  to  look  over  the  drawings,  but  I  have 
no  doubt  he  will  do  so  very  shortly.  I  trust  that  yourself  and 
baby  are  quite  well,  and  that  you  have  good  accounts  from 
your  husband. 

"  I    saw  our  mutual   friends,  Mrs.  S and    Miss  J , 

yesterday. 

"  Excuse  this  hasty  scrawl,  and  believe  me, 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  C , 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  CATHERINE  DICKENS. 

"  i    DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE,  y>th  April,  1846." 

My  poor  little  artist  was  dreadfully  disappointed  by  merely 
receiving  a  polite  note,  thanking  her  for  the  sight  of  her  very 
talented  outlines,  and  that  was  all.  I  introduced  her  shortly 
after  this  to  my  good  friend  J.  Sidney  Cooper,  R.  A.,  the 
eminent  cattle-painter,  and  he  invited  her  to  his  house  to  meet 
people  of  note  and  influence,  and  treated  her  with  such  true 
kindness  that  she  never  ceased  to  thank  me.  To  prove  that 
he  must  have  infinitely  benefited  her,  I  have  a  letter  from  her 
sister,  written  long  after,  in  which  she  says  they  had  had  no 
chance  of  getting  on  till  I  "  used  my  fairy  wand  and  conjured 
up  that  bright  circle  at  Mr.  Cooper's  for  her ;  so  that,  you  see, 
treat  the  matter  as  you  will,  it  comes  back  to  you  at  last ; 
Minnie  owes  her  highest  encouragement,  and  both  of  us  some 
of  our  best  friends,  to  your  active  kindness." 

The  other  members  of  Mr.  Dickens's  family  whom  I  knew 
continued  always  on  the  same  terms,  and  a  few  years  ago 
Fred  came,  accompanied  by  his  father-in-law,  and  stayed  some 
days  with  us.  After  that  he  came  with  Mrs.  S ,  and  re 
mained  with  us  a  week,  and  he  would  never  admit  that  his 
brother  felt  unkindly  towards  me,  though  he  could  not  explain 
his  strange  conduct. 

The  last  I  ever  had  to  do  with  Mr.  Dickens  was  when  I 
wrote  to  ask  the  favor  of  a  few  lines  from  him  in  support  of  an 
appeal  I  was  about  to  make  to  a  statesman  high  in  office  on 
behalf  of  the  aged  and  necessitous  widow  of  an  author  of 


OBITUARY  POEMS.  2QI 

repute  formerly  ;  but  he  declined  in  a  few  curt  sentences,  on 
the  grounds  that  I  had  been  "  absurdly  misinformed  "  as  to 
his  having  any  influence  in  such  quarter. 

OBITUARY  POEMS. 
CHARLES   DICKENS. 

BORN  FEBRUARY  7,   1812;  DIED  JUNE  9,  1870. 

While  his  life's  lamp  seemed  clearest,  most  intense, 
A  light  of  wit  and  love  to  great  and  small, 

By  the  dark  angel  he  is  summoned  hence, 
To  solve  the  mightiest  mystery  of  all. 

Hearing  that  he  has  passed  beyond  the  veil, 
Before  the  Judge  who  metes  to  men  their  dues, 

Men's  cheeks,  through  English-speaking  lands,  turn  pale. 
Far  as  the  speaking  wires  can  bear  the  news  — 

Blanched  at  this  sudden  snapping  of  a  life 
That  seemed  of  all  our  lives  to  hold  a  share  : 

So  were  our  memories  with  his  fancies  rife, 

So  much  of  his  thought  our  thoughts  seemed  to  share. 

Charles  Dickens  dead  !     It  is  as  if  a  light 

In  every  English  home  were  quenched  to-day ; 

As  if  a  face  all  knew  had  passed  from  sight, 
A  hand  all  loved  to  press  had  turned  to  clay. 

Question  who  will  his  power,  its  range,  its  height, 
His  wisdom,  insight,  —  this  at  least  we  know, 

All  in  his  love's  warmth  and  his  humor's  light 

Rejoiced  and  reveled,  —  old,  young,  high  or  low,  — 

Learned,  unlearned,  from  the  boy  at  school 
To  the  judge  on  the  bench,  none  read  but  owned 

The  large  heart  o'er  which  the  large  brain  held  rule, 
The  fancy  by  whose  side  clear  sense  sat  throned, 


2Q2  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

The  observation  that  made  all  its  own, 

The  shaping  faculty  that  breathed  life's  breath 

In  types,  all  felt  they  knew  and  still  had  known, 
Like-life,  except  that  they  are  safe  from  death. 

Since  Shakespeare's,  where  the  pen  that  so  hath  lent 
Substance  to  airy  nothings  of  the  brain, 

His  fancies  seem  with  men's  experience  blent, 
Till  to  take  each  for  other  we  are  fain  ? 

And  who  that  ever  wielded  such  a  power 
Used  it  so  purely,  to  such  Christian  end, 

Used  it  to  quicken  the  millennial  hour, 

When  rich  to  poor  shall  be  as  man  to  friend  ? 

Who  can  say  how  much  of  that  love's  pure  leaven 
That  leavens  now  the  lump  of  this  our  world, 

With  influence  as  of  a  present  Heaven, 

Like  light  athwart  chaotic  darkness  hurled, 

May  be  traced  up  to  springs  by  him  unsealed, 
To  clods  by  him  stirred  round  affection's  roots, 

To  hearts  erst  hard,  but  by  his  fires  annealed 
To  softness  whereof  Love's  works  are  the  fruit  ? 

Mourn,  England,  for  another  great  one  gone 
To  join  the  great  ones  who  have  gone  before  — 

And  put  a  universal  mourning  on. 

Where'er  sea  breaks  on  English-speaking  shore. 

His  works  survive  him,  and  his  works'  work  too  — 
Of  love  and  kindness  and  good-will  to  men, 

Hate  of  the  wrong,  and  reverence  of  the  true, 
And  war  on  all  that  shuns  truth's  eagle-ken. 

Earth's  two  chief  nations  mourners  at  his  tomb : 
Their  memories  for  his  monument :  their  love 


OBITUARY  POEMS.  293 

For  his  reward.     Such  is  his  gloriors  doom 
Whom  mortal  praise  or  blame  no  more  shall  move  ! 

DICKENS  AT  GAD'S  HILL. 

One  summer  day  —  ah,  saddest  eighth  of  June  ! 

My  brooding  heart,  my  very  soul  descries 
Around  a  chalet,  in  a  grove  at  noon, 

Dream-children  from  the  flowering  earth  arise. 

So  hushed  (like  death  ! )  the  calm,  sequestered  scene, 
One  notes  with  eye,  not  ear,  the  fitful  breeze, 

Through  sunlight  branches,  flickering  gold  and  green, 
About  yon  Swiss  roof  nestling  'mid  the  trees. 

Like  fitful  wanderers  seen  returning  home, 
Like  magnets  trembling  truthful  to  the  north, 

To  this  one  spot  of  all  the  world  they  roam, 

Again  they  throng  round  him  who  called  them  forth. 

No  shadowy  semblance  theirs  of  human  life, 

Ideal  shapes  of  visionary  birth  : 
They  breathe,  they  move  with  vital  force  more  rife 

Than  fleeting,  fleshly  forms  that  people  earth. 

The  Angel- Child,  the  Guardian  Guide  of  age, 

With  soul  as  pure  as  all  the  tears  we  shed 
When  swimming  eyes  first  read  on  blotted  page, 
"  Dear,  gentle,  patient,  noble  Nell  was  dead." 

The  fading  boy,  the  blossom  nipped  in  bud, 
Whose  infant  grace  had  oft  the  quaintest  air, 

Who  questioned  voices  in  the  ocean  flood, 

Whose  looks  of  love  were  sad  as  tones  of  prayer, 

Till  passed,  like  sigh  in  sleep,  his  parting  breath, 
And  o'er  the  couch  where  lay  the  gentle  Paul, 

Naught  stirred  above  the  "  old,  old  fashion,  Death," 
Naught  save  "  the  golden  ripple  on  the  wall." 


294  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

The  sweet  Child-wife,  the  darling  of  a  heart 

Whose  tenderest  chords  that  solemn  eve  were  riven, 
When  Dora's  doom  was  told  with  speechless  art  — 
"  That  mute  appeal,  that  finger  raised  to  heaven  !  " 

The  little  cripple  with  the  active  crutch, 

At  thought  of  whom  the  mother's  eyes  grew  dim, 

Sighing,  as  fell  the  black  work  from  her  touch, 
It  was  "  the  color  —  Ah,  poor  Tiny  Tim  !  " 

The  stripling  frail,  who,  dying  with  a  kiss, 
A  child  at  heart,  a  man  but  to  the  sight  ! 

Poor  Rick  !  began  the  world  again,  —  not  this, 
Ah  no,  "  not  this  —  the  world  that  sets  this  right." 

And  orphan  Johnny,  his  lost  home  afar, 

An  infant  waif  on  awful  billows  hurled, 
No  mother  clinging  to  it,  floats,  frail  spar, 
"  O'er  that  dark  sea  that  rolls  round  all  the  world." 

Around  the  sunlight  chalet,  where,  within, 

Dreams  the  great  Dreamer  'neath  the  shadowing  trees, 

From  flowering  earth,  fresh  dews  of  love  to  win, 
Dream-children  rise  in  lovely  forms  like  these. 

No  spectral  shades  for  glimpses  of  the  moon, 
But  radiant  shapes  in  calm  of  summer-day, 

They  come  unbidden  to  his  haunts  at  noon, 

Down  the  bright  path  they  went  —  to  point  the  way. 

These  haunts  the  aptest  symbols  of  a  life 

That  loved  the  pleasaunce  winter  ne'er  bereaves 

Of  verdure,  in  those  grand  old  cedars  rife 

Crowned  with  a  lasting  glory  of  Green  Leaves. 

And  yonder,  basking  in  the  golden  air, 

Luring  his  thoughts  where  'er  his  thoughts  may  roam, 


OBITUARY  POEMS,  295 

Cinctured  by  blossoms  in  a  garden  fair, 
The  dear  familiar  roof-beams  of  his  home. 

Between  that  home  and  this  secluded  haunt 
Flows  the  broad  highway,  symbol  here  again 

That  alien  to  his  hearth  no  tread  of  want 
Or  toil  was  held,  or  ever  passed  in  vain. 

O  Friend  !  O  Brother  !  dearer  to  my  heart 

Than  even  thy  loving  friendship  could  discern, 

Thy  thoughts,  thy  dreams  were  of  our  lives  a  part, 
Thy  genius  love,  not  merely  fame,  could  earn. 

Affection,  admiration,  honor,  praise, 

Innocent  laughter  and  ennobling  tears, 
Are  thine  by  right,  not  through  mere  length  of  days, 

A  loftier  life,  in  never-ending  years. 

DICKENS  IN  CAMP. 

Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting, 

The  river  sang  below  ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow. 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor,  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth  ; 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  volume  drew, 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure 

To  hear  the  tale  anew. 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered  faster, 

And  as  the  firelight  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had  writ  of  "  Little  Nell." 


296  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Perhaps  'twas  boyish  fancy, — for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all,  — 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall :. 

The  pine-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows, 

Listened  in  every  spray, 
While  the  whole  camp,  with  "  Nell "  on  English  meadows, 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes  ;  —  o'ertaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine  — 
Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 

From  out  the  sturdy  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire  : 

And  he  who  wrought  the  spell  ?  — 
Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell  ! 

Lost  is  that  camp  !  But  let  its  fragrant  story 

Blend  with  the  heart  that  thrills 
With  hop-vines'  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 

That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreaths  entwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptous  folly,  — 

This  spray  of  Western  pine  \ 

AT  GAD'S  HILL. 

Gadshill  is  famous.     What  of  old 
To  the  world's  poet  made  it  dear, 

Whether  what  country  gossips  told, 
Or  stolen  hours  of  cheer 

Spent  there  with  men  of  kindred  mind  ; 

Less,  yet  the  largest  of  mankind, 


OBITUARY  POEMS.  297 

We  know  not,  and  we  need  not  care  : 

Enough  that  Shakespeare  loved  the  place  : 

And  settled  in  possession  there 
The  merriest  of  his  race,  — 

Falstaff,  whose  thirsty  spirit  still 

Haunts  all  the  taverns  at  Gad's  Hill ! 

Could  Shakespeare,  with  prophetic  eyes, 

Who  were  to  follow  him  have  seen, 
And  be,  if  not  so  great  and  wise, 

As  what  man  since  hath  been  ? 
Yet  wise  and  great  in  smaller  ways 
The  lords  of  life  of  coming  days, 

He  would  have  chosen  out  of  all 

Dickens,  as  knowing,  loving  men, 
And  let  on  him  the  mantle  fall 

That  was  to  vanish  then  ! 
Long  lost,  late  found,  now  lost  once  more  — 
Ah,  who  that  mantle  shall  restore  ? 

Sacred  to  all  but  Shakespeare's  shade, 

And  to  his  ghosts  of  crownless  kings 
Abandoned,  wretched  queens  betrayed, 

And  high,  heroic  things, 
Is  Stratford  :  let  no  mortal  dare 
Disturb  its  hushed  and  reverent  air  ! 

But  Gad's  Hill,  whither  Falstaff  went 
From  Eastcheap  (glad  to  hasten  back), 

Though  plundered,  still  on  plunder  bent, 
Puffed  out  with  lies  and  sack,  — 

What  spot  of  English  earth  so  fit 

For  one  with  more  than  Falstaff's  wit  ? 


298  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Nay,  Shakespeare's  self  was  not  his  peer 
In  that  humane  and  happy  art 

To  wake  at  once  the  smile  and  tear, 
And  captive  hold  the  heart ! 

Make  room,  then  Shakespeare,  this  is  he 

Hath  taken  the  throne  of  mirth  from  thee. 

The  world  of  kings  and  queens  is  thine, 
Thou  hast  the  soldier's,  scholar's  ear : 

England  and  Rome,  Greece,  "  Troy  divine,"  - 
Hamlet,  Othello,  Lear  : 

Small  elves  that  dance  on  yellow  sands, 

And  all  the  spells  of  fairy  lands  ! 

This  common,  work-day  world  of  ours  ; 

Our  little  lives  of  joy  and  care  ; 
Green  lanes,  where  children  gather  flowers  ; 

And  London's  murky  air  ; 
Thieves,  paupers,  women  of  the  town, 
And  the  black  Thames  in  which  they  drown  ;  - 

These  were  the  things  that  Dickens  knew : 
Before  his  sight  like  dreams  they  passed. 

If  saddened,  he  was  gladdened,  too, 
For  sorrow  should  not  last : 

Happy  must  be  his  heart  and  mind 

Whose  task  it  is  to  help  his  kind  ! 

Healthy  his  nature  was,  above 
All  shallow  griefs  and  sympathies  : 

What  others  hated  he  could  love, 
And  what  they  loved  despise. 

His  mirth  was  harder  to  be  borne 

Than  Thackeray's  sadness,  Byron's  scorn. 


OBITUARY  POEMS.  299 

He  taught  the  virtues,  first  and  last ; 

He  taught  us  manhood  more  and  more  ; 
The  simple  courage  that  stands  fast, 

The  patience  of  the  poor  : 
Love  for  all  creatures,  great  and  small, 
And  trust  in  Something  over  all ! 

This  gave  him  more  than  royal  sway, 

The  benefactor  of  his  race, 
He  would  have  wiped  with  smiles  away 

The  tears  from  every  face  ! 
They  drop  to-day  from  many  an  eye  : 
He  draws  them,  but  he  cannot  dry. 

The  hand  is  still  that  held  his  pen, 

His  eyes  are  shut,  but  not  in  sleep  ; 
Weeping  around  his  bed  are  men 

Who  do  not  often  weep  ! 
Laughter  no  more  the  house  shall  fill, 
For  Death  is  master  at  Gad's  Hill  ! 


INDEX. 


Arctic,     Loss  of  Mr.  Henry  Reed  in,  9. 
Aretz,    M.     Dedication    of    "  The  Paris 
Sketch-Book  "  to,  41. 

Barrow,  John  Henry.  He  starts  "  The 
Mirror  of  Parliament,"  225. 

Blanc,  Louis.  His  story  about  Robert 
Bell's  watch,  160. 

Brimley,  George.  His  opinion  of  "Van 
ity  Fair,"  68. 

Bronte,  Miss.  Her  opinion  of  Lady  Cas- 
tlewood,  56. 

Brooks,  Shirley.  His  paper  on  Thack 
eray,  164. 

Brown,  Dr.  John.  His  paper  on  Thack 
eray's  literary  career,  21. 

"  Brownrigge,  Elisabeth."  In  Erasers,  30. 

"  Catherine."  The  story  of,  by  Ikey  Sol 
omon,  29. 

"Chronicle,  The  Morning."  Thackeray's 
letter  to  its  editor,  144. 

Cruikshank,  George.  He  chims  the  idea 
of  "  Oliver  Twist,"  211. 

Cunningham,  Peter.  He  undertakes  the 
duties  of  secretary  for  a  public  dinner 
to  Thackeray,  115. 

DICKENS,  CHARLES.  Thackeray's  opinion 
of,  95.  Thackeray's  delight  in  reading 
"  Dombey  and  Son,"  124.  His  confi 
dence  as  a  public  speaker,  126.  He 
writes  to  Thackeray  in  behalf  of  Mr. 
Edmund  Yates,  157.  Thackeray's  re 
ply  to  him,  158.  Coolness  between  them, 
159.  They  are  reconciled  again.  160. 
His  Thackeray  "  In  Memoriam,"  187. 
His  earliest  writings,  197.  His  con 
nection  with  the  "  Morning  Chronicle,'' 
197.  He  reports  for  the  "  Mirror  of 
Parliament,"  197.  He  makes  his  debut 
in  the  "Old  Monthly  Magazine,  198." 
Sketches  by  "  Boz,"  198.  They  are 


admired  by  Mr.  Grant,  who  wishes  him 
to  continue  them,  200.  His  terms.  200. 
He  arranges  to  write  the  "  Pickwick 
Papers,"  200.  Dr.  Black  predicts  his 
future  fame,  201.  His  genius  discovered 
by  Vincent  Dowling,  201.  Lord  Derby 
dictates  his  speech  to  him,  202.  As  a 
resurrectionist,  202.  His  terms  for  writ 
ing  the  "  Pickwick  Papers,"  203.  Suc 
cess  of  the  "  Pickwick  Papers"  dubious, 
203.  He  introduces  Sam  Weller,  203. 
Great  success  of  the  "  Pickwick  Pa 
pers,"  204.  The  profit  of  the  publish 
ers,  204.  His  profit,  204.  "  Beauties 
of  Pickwick,"  206.  Popularity  of  the 
name,  206.  Whence  derived,  206.  The 


, 

"  Pickwick  Papers  "  dramatized,  207. 
"Pickwick  ;'  transported  by  G.  W.  M. 
Reynolds,  207.  Superficial  simi 


larity  between  the  "Pickwick  Pa 
pers"  and  "Life  in  London,"  209. 
He  writes  the  "Strange  Gentleman," 
209.  Its  success,  209.  He  writes 
"  The  Village  Coquettes,"  209.  Pop 
ularity  of  some  of  its  songs,  209.  His 
preface  to  it,  210.  Who  originated 
u  Oliver  Twist?"  211.  Poetical  epistle 
to  him  from  Father  Prout,  212.  His 
friendship  with  Irving,  213.  He  plays 
in  "The  Strange  Gentleman,"  218.  He 
appears  in  "Every  Man  in  his  Hu 
mor,"  218.  Assumes  the  literary  de 
partment  of  the  "Daily  News,"  219. 
Publishes  his  "Pictures  from  Italy" 
in  it,  220.  Writes  the  "  Hymn  of 
the  Wiltshire  Laborers,"  220.  He 
retires  from  the  "  Daily  News,"  221. 
Friendly  rivalry  with  Thackeray,  222. 
Lord  Jeffery's  grief  at  the  death  of 
Little  Nell,  225.  Anecdote  of  his 
skill  as  a  reporter,  226.  He  writes 
"Mrs.  Nightingale's  Diary,"  with 
Mark  Lemon,  227.  Plays  in  "  Not 


302 


INDEX. 


so  Bad  as  we  Seem,"  227.  He 
explains  Harold  Skimpole,  231.  He 
purchases  Gad's  Hill,  234.  The  very 
queer  small  boy,  234.  His  epigram  on 
Southey,  235.  He  is  taken  for  a 
"  smasher,"  236.  The  Queen  desires 
an  interview  with  him.  237.  She  pre 
sents  him  with  "  Our  Life  in  the  High 
lands,"  237.  Offers  to  confer  any  dis 
tinction  upon  him,  238.  He  assists  Mr. 
Haydn,  239.  His  methodical  habits, 
239.  His  manner  of  composition,  240. 
His  activity  and  vitality,  242.  He  in 
vites  Douglas  Jerrold  to  come  to  Italy, 
243.  His  hatred  of  Cant,  244.  He 
writes  a  "  Life  of  our  Saviour"  for  his 
children,  246.  Ada,  Lady  Lovelace,  ex 
presses  a  desire  to  talk  with  him,  247. 
Did  he  ever  pray?  247.  His  last  stroll 
through  the  Temple  with  Douglas  Jer 
rold,  248.  In  council  with  the  Guild  of 
Literature  and  Art,  249.  Hanging  pict 
ures  for  a  widow,  250.  Taking  aim  at 
Aunt  Sally,  250.  Could  he  draw  a  gen 
tleman  or  lady?  251.  Some  of  his  gen 
tle  folks,  252.  His  knowledge  of  disease 
and  death,  253.  His  self-possession,  254. 
Chorley's  defense  of  him  in  the  "  Athe 
naeum,"  255.  His  genial  hospitality, 
256.  He  transfers  "All  the  Year 
Round "  to  his  eldest  son,  256.  The 
shadow  of  the  end,  257.  "Approaching 
the  mystery,"  258.  His  laughter,  259. 
His  powers  of  observation,  259.  His 
precision  and  accuracy,  260.  A  good 
listener,  260.  His  extreme  punctuality, 
261.  His  toleration,  261.  His  loving 
interest  in  the  actual  world,  262.  A  truth 
ful  character,  263.  His  love  of  the  poor, 
263.  His  power  of  narration,  264. 
Compared  with  Lord  Palmerston,  264. 
A  friendly  critic,  264.  His  hand  ex 
pressive,  265.  His  taste  in  dress,  267. 
Fond  of  games,  268.  Stock  or  waist 
coat  ?  269.  Flirtation  nonsense,  271. 
His  one  good  pun,  272.  Rumor  that 
he  is  insane,  273.  He  does  not  like  to 
be  caricatured,  275.  Love  of  mischief, 

276.  He  spoils  a  young   lady's   dress, 

277.  As  a  ballad-singer,  278.     He  puts 
down      the       starer,     280.        Watches 
Macready's     children     at    play,    281. 
Prejudiced     against   the    Scotch,     283. 
Who    carved   the   name  ?    284.     "  He 

is  so  odd,"  285.  Dancing  "  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley,  288.  Punch's  obituary 
poem,  291.  Charles  Kent's  memorial 
verse,  293.  Bret  Harte's  "Dickens 
in  Camp."  295.  "At  Gad's  Hill,"  by 
R.  H.  Stodd  ird,  296. 
Dinner,  The.  Thackeray's  description  of, 
116. 


Egan  Pierce.  His  "  Life  in  Lordon," 
208.  Compared  with  Dickens,  208. 

Esmond,  Henry.  At  his  mother's  grave, 
66. 

Felton,  C.  C.  His  reminisce'nces  of  Dick 
ens  and  Irving,  213. 

Fontenelle,  M.  What  his  heart  was 
made  of,  73. 

Fraser's.  Thackeray's  connection  with, 
28.  Its  staff,  28.  Thackeray  writes 
his  "  Yellowplush  Correspondence" 
for  it,  28.  His  story  of  "  Catherine  " 
written  for  it,  29.  "  A  Shabby  Genteel 
Story"  written  for  it,  35.  Its  sudden 
ending,  35.  The  "  Great  Hoggarty 
Diamond,"  written  for  it,  35.  Thack 
eray's  miscellaneous  papers  in,  36. 
"  Barry  Lyndon,"  written  for  it,  37. 

"  Fun."  Memorial  poem  on  Thackeray, 
192. 

Furness,  Miss.  Thackeray's  opinion  of 
her  singing,  6. 

Grant,  James.  He  traces  Dickens's  ear 
liest  writings,  197.  He  assumes  the  ed 
itorship  of  the  "  Monthly  Magazine," 
198.  He  wishes  to  continue  "  Sketches" 
by  "  Boz,"  199.  He  learns  the  name 
of  the  writer,  199.  Dickens  offers  to 
continue  the  Sketches  as  he  wishes, 
200. 

Georges,  The.     Success  of,  12. 

Hamilton,  Sir  William.  Subscribes  for  a 
silver  statuette  of ' '  Punch  "  to  be  given 
to  Thackeray,  39. 

Hannay,  James.  His  memoir  of  Thack 
eray,  174. 

Harte,  Bret.    "Dickens  in  Camp,"  295. 

Helps,  Sir  Arthur.  His  recollections 
of  Dickens,  258. 

Hodder,  James.  His  recollections  of 
Thackeray,  109. 

Houghton,  Lord.  His  memorial  poem 
on  Thackeray,  193. 

"  Humorists,  The.''  Failure  of  in  Amer 
ica  on  repetition,  14. 

Irving,  Washington.  His  friendship  with 
Dickens,  213.  Dickens's  appreciation 
of  his  writings,  214.  He  is  called  upon 
to  preside  at  the  Dickens  dinner,  216. 
His  nervousness,  216.  He  breaks 
down  in  his  speech,  217. 

Jameson,    Mrs.      Criticises  Thackeray's 

female  characters,  56. 
Jeffrey,   Lord.     Subscribes    for    a    silver 

statuette  of  "Punch"  to   be  given  to 

Thackeray,  39. 


INDEX. 


303 


Jerrold,    Bhnchard.     His  description  of 

Thackeray,  150. 
Jerrold,    Douglas.      His    remark    about 

Thackeray,    no.     His   recollections  of 

Dickens,  241. 

Kent,  Charles.  "  Dickens  at  Gad's 
Hill,"  293. 

"  Kickleburys  on  the  Rhine,  The."  Con 
clusion  of,  65. 

Knowles,  Sheridan.  Relates  an  anecdote 
of  Dickens's  benevolence,  238. 

Lauzun,  Duke  de-     Memoirs  of,  16. 

"Little  Billee."  Thackeray's  ballad  of, 
78. 

Lemon,  Mark.  Writes  "  Mrs.  Night 
ingale's  Diary"  with  Dickens,  227! 

Lovat,  Lord,  Simon  Frazer.  Allusion 
to  his  last  meal  in  a  speech  of  Thack 
eray's,  1 1 8. 


Mackay,   Charles. 
Dickens,  201. 


His  recollections  of 


Mackenzie,  R.  Shelton.  What  George 
Cruikshank  told  him  about  "  Oliver 
Twist,"  211. 

Macready,  William  Charles.  Dickens's 
opinion  of,  282 

"  Mirror  of  Parliament,  The."  Dickens 
reports  for  it,  197. 

Moncrieff,  T.  W.  Dramatizes  '*  Pick 
wick,"  207. 

Montgomery,  Robert.  His^3  Woman 
the  Angel  of  Life»j! — reviewed  by 
Thackeray,  23.  ^ 

'•'     W.      Obituary     poem     on 


eath  of,  4. 

"  rines   on ,   by  Thack- 


His  poetic  epistle  to 


Parsons,    T. 

Thackeray,  194. 
Peter,  Williai 
Philippe,    Louis, 

eray,  24. 
Prout,     Father. 

"  Boz,  ^  2J2. 

"  Punch."  Thackeray's  connection  with, 
3V~>His  value  to  it,  37.  Its  value 
to  hiffy,  37.  ,  His  noms  de  plume  in,  38. 
Silver  statue  of  the  little  man  in  Edin 
burgh,  38.  It  is  purchased  and  sent  to 
Thackeray,  559.  Memorial  poem  on 
Thackeray,  191.  Memorial  poem  on 
Dickens,  291. 

Ramsbottom,  Dorothea  Julia,  in  Cam 
bridge,  136.  "  Statement  on  Fax  rela 
tive  to  the  late  Murder,"  138. 

Reed,  William  B.  His  memorial  of  Thack 
eray,  i.  Personal  relations  with  Thack 
eray,  2.  Letters  to  from  Thackeray, 
5,  7,  10-13,  !S»  J9.  Gives  Thackeray 
an  autograph  of  Washington,  7.  Loss 
of  his  brother  on  the  A  rctic,  9.  Thack 
eray  condoles  with  him,  10.  Sends  a 


copy  of  "Esmond"  to  his  wife,  12. 
His  "Memoirs  of  Hester  Reed,"  16 
Introduces  the  Duke  de  Lauzun  to,  16. 
Thackeray  congratulates  him  on  his 
appointment  as  American  Minister  to 
China,  19  Finds  a  hotel  for  him  in 
London,  18.  Dines  and  wines  him,  19. 

Reed,    Henry.      Lost  in   the  Arctic,  9. 

Reed,  Hester.      Memoirs  of,  16. 

Reynolds,  G.  W.  M.  Writes  "Pickwick 
Abroad,"  207. 

Sala,  George  Augustus.  Thackeray's 
opinion  of  his  cleverness,  127. 

Sargent,  Charles.  He  discovers  that 
Thackeray  is  dead,  163. 

Simcoe,  Adolphus.    A  heart-broken  man, 

25- ' 

Skeltpn,  John  Henry.  His  "  My  Book," 
reviewed  by  Mr.  Yellowplush,  28. 

Smith,  Albert.  Thackeray's  verse  on  his 
bad  grammar,  128. 

"  Snob,  The."  Thackeray's  earliest  lit 
erary  effort,  133. 

Solomon,  Ikey.  A  noni  de  plume  of 
Thackeray,  29. 

"  Standard,  The  National."  Thackeray 
edits,  22. 

Stella,  Swift's.  Thackeray's  assertion 
regarding  her  parentage,  97. 

Sterling,  John.  Gives  Thackeray  com 
fort  and  pleasure,  36. 

Stoddard,  R.  H.  "Adsum,"  195.  "At 
Gad's  Hill,"  296. 

"  Story,  A  Shabby  Genteel."  Its  sudden 
ending  in  Fraser,  35. 

"Timbuctoo."  A  burlesque  poem  by 
Thackeray,  134. 

THACKERAY.  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE. 
His  first  visit  to  America,  i.  Success 
of  his  Lectures,  i.  Walking  with  Win. 
B.  Reed's  little  daughter,  2.  Loves 
boiled  mutton  and  children,  2.  A  con 
trast  to  a  big  Kentuckian,  2.  His  im 
pressions  of  America,  3.  He  gives  a 
dinner  in  New  York,  3.  His  manner 
of  reading  poetry,  4.  His  reflections 
on  the  recovery  of  lost  reason,  4. 
Letter  to  Mr.  Reed,  5.  He  is  not  dis 
contented  with  his  lot,  5.  His  philosophy 
with  regard  to  death,  6.  Success  of  his 
lectures  in  Baltimore,  6.  His  plans  in 
America,  6.  His  opinion  of  Miss  Fur- 
ness,  6.  He  returns  to  England,  7. 
Letter  to  Mr.  Reed,  with  a  caricature, 
7.  "  As  with  tailors,  so  with  men,"  7. 
'Dinners  right  and  left,"  7.  Taking 
it  easy  with  his  girls  in  Switzerland,  8. 
He  wishes  the  Americans  spoke  French 
better,  8.  Remark  to  his  daughter 
about  the  habit  of  eating  with  knives, 


304 


INDEX. 


3.  Bespeaks  a  good  word  for  Mrs.  ' 
Glyn  the  actress,  8.  His  opinion  of 
Mrs.  Stowe?s  book,  9.  Writing  a  new  ; 
story,  9.  What  he  is  to  get  for  it,  9. 
Visits  Mr.  Reed's  brother  Henry  in 
London,  9.  Letter  to  about  the 
loss  of  his  brother,  10.  Why  his  book 
has  not  been  written,  n.  He  applies 
for  the  Secretaryship  of  the  British 
Legation  at  Washington,  u.  Why  he 
did  not  obtain  it,  n.  Makes  his  second 
visit  to  America,  12.  Success  of  "  The 
Georges,''  12.  Remarks  upon  an  ad 
verse  criticism,  13.  Repeats  "  The 
Humorists  "  in  Philadelphia  unsuccess 
fully,  14.  His  generosity  to  his  losing 
man  of  business,  15.  He  conceives  the 
idea  of  "  The  Virginians,"  15.  He  talks 
with  Mr.  Reed  about  "The  Memoirs 
of  Hester  Reed,"  16.  The  names 
"Hetty"  and  "Theodosia,"  probably 
derived  from  that  volume,  16.  Refer 
ence  to  the  Duke  de  Lauzun  in  "  The 
Virginians,"  17.  Congratulates  Mr. 
Reed  on  his  appointment  as  American 
Minister  to  China,  18.  Writing  in  the 
Athenaeum  Library,  19.  His  horror  of 
the  American  Civil  War,  20.  Brief 
summary  of  his  career,  21.  Edits  "The 
National  Standard,"  22.  Writes  a 
mock  sonnet  to  Wordsworth,  23. 
Lines  on  Louis  Philippe,  24.  Publishes 
"  Flore  et  Zephvr,"  26.  His  early 
monogram,  28.  Becomes  a  Fraserian, 
28.  Begins  the  "  Yellpwplush  Cor 
respondence,"  28.  Reviews  Lytton's 
I"  Sea  Captain  "  in  his  "  Epistles  to  the 
'Literati,"  29.  Writes  his  story  of 
"Catherine,"  29.  Proposes  to  write 
"Tales  of  the  Old  Bailey,  31.  He 
criticises  highwayman  novels  in  the  per 
son  of  Mr.  I  key  Solomon,  32.  Char 
acters  in  "  Catherine,"  34.  Writes  the 
"  Shabby  Genteel  Story,"  35.  Writes 
the  "  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond,"  35. 
Sterling's  opinion  of  it,  36.  Different  pa 
pers  in  Fraser,  1842-43,  36.  His  connec 
tion  with  "  Punch."  37.  His  contribu 
tions  to  it,  38.  "  Mr.  Punch  "  in  Edin 
burgh,  38.  He  is  purchased  and  sent  to 
him,  39.  His  note  in  reply,  39.  He 
feels  the  gravity  of  his  calling,  40.  His 
different  noms  de  plume  and  writings  in 
"  Punch,"  41.  Dedicates  "  The  Paris 
Sketch-Book,"  to  his  tailor,  41.  Pub 
lishes  "Comic  Tales  and  Sketches," 
43.  "  Full  and  ripe,"  like  Addison,  43. 
His  writings  in  different  periodicals  and 
journals,  44.  Smallness  of  his  hand 
writing,  44.  His  method  of  writing,  44. 
Reappearance  of  his  characters,  44. 
Works  of  his  later  literary  life,  45.  A 


French  critic   on   "yanity  , 

His  stories  stop,  buTUtr  not  erT97"*"48. 
His    beginnings    frequently   felicitous, 

49.  His  characters  finely  discriminated, 

50.  His   remark   about    Esmond    and 
Lady  Castlewood,  57.     His  last  paper, 
61.     "If  my  tap  is  not  genuine,  it  is 
naught,"  62.     He  draws  but  one  utterly 
unredeemed  scoundrel,  67.    His  opinion 
of  satire   and   satirists,  68.     Excellence 
of  his    historic    portraits,   69.      He   is 
charged  with  disloyalty,  71.     Defends 
himself  at  a  dinner  in  Edinburgh,  71. 
Character  of  his  verse,  75.     Character 
of  his  drawings,  78.     Excellence  of  his 
art  criticisms,  81.     No  good  portrait  of 
him,   86.     A   glimpse   of   his  personal 
history,  88.     His  strong  religious  feel 
ing,    89.     '"The    Infinite    beginning," 
92.     His  personal   appearance,  94.     A 
blunt   remark  about   Carlyle,   95.     His 
opinion    of  Dickens,  95.     His   general 
manner,  96.    His  assertion  with  regard 
to  Swift's  Stella,  97.     His  story  about 
the    Eton   boys,  98       He    defines  the 
difference  between  Shakespeare  and  an 
ordinary  mind,  98.  His  sensitiveness,  99. 
His  feeling  towards  servants,  99.     An 
instance  of  his   generosity  to  them,  99. 
Personal  appearance  in    his  last  days, 
100.    A  remark  about  Washington,  101. 
His    regret    for    his    lost    child,    101. 
"The  tall  gentleman,"  103.     He  is  not 
permitted  to   "tip"  an  American  boy, 
105.       A     compromise     effected,    106. 
"  Who  is  that  man! "  107.    His  moodi- 
ness,  no.  A  remark  of  Douglas  Jerrold 
concerning  him,   no.     A  note  to    Mr. 
H odder,  ni.     His  manner  of  loaning 
money  to  his  poorer  brethren,  112.     En 
gages  Hodder  as  his  amanuensis,  113. 
His  manner  while  dictating,  113.     His 
intention  to  start  a  magazine,  14.     His 
observation  concerning  a  secretary,  115. 
A  farewell  banquet  proposed,  115.    His 
nervousness  about  it,  115.     He  dictates 
the  heads  of  a  speech,  116.    The  Thack 
eray  dinner,  116.     Draft  of  his  speech, 
1 1 7.  Anecdote  of  his  tender-heartedness, 
120.     The  parting  hour,   121.     He  ar 
ranges  with  Mr.  Beale  for  readings  of 
"The  Four  Georges,"  123.    Hisdelight 
in   reading   "  Dombey   and   Son,"  124. 
"  There  's  no  writing  against  such  power 
as   this,"    125.     Nervous  about  another 
speech,  125.     He  feels  that  he  has  lost 
prestige,  126.     His  literary  generosity, 
127.     His  dislike  of  writing  autographs, 
127.     "A  humble  suggestion  "  with  re 
gard  to  Albert  Smith's  grammar,    128. 
He   is  taken    ill   while  lecturing,    129. 
What  he  was  advised  to  do.  and  what 


INDEX. 


305 


he  did,  129.  His  saunter  along  Pall 
Mall,  "  He  's  dead!  "  130.  In  Kensal 
Green  Cemetery,  131-  His  earliest  lit 
erary  efforts,  132.  "The  Snob,"  133. 
Mr.  Thackeray  puts  up  at  the  Hotel  de 
Bristol,  139.  His  medicine  for  a  sick 
old  patient,  139.  What  he  did  in  Paris 
when  he  was  young,  140.  He  endeavors 
to  witness  an  execution,  142.  His  letter 
to  the  editor  of  the  "  Morning  Chroni 
cle,"  144.  Compared  with  Dickens  and 
Hawthorne,  150.  Tossing  up  with  a 
cabman,  152.  The  silent  rider  on  his 
cab,  152.  In  Horace  Mayhew's  cham 
bers,  153.  He  has  a  five-pound  note 
to  lend,  153.  Mr.  Edmund  Yates  de 
scribes  him  in  "  Town  Talk,"  154.  His 
letter  to  Mr.  Yates,  155.  He  receives 
a  letter  from  Dickens  in  regard  to  Mr. 
Yates,  157.  His  reply,  158.  His  letter 
to  the  Committee  of  the  Garrick  Club, 
159.  Coolness  between  him  and  Dick 
ens.  They  are  finally  reconciled,  160. 
Mr.  Bell  thinks  it  is  like  him,  161. 
He  caricatures  himself  as  a  winged 
spirit,  161.  His  new  serial  story  an 
nounced,  162.  He  complains  of  illness, 
163.  Wishes  his  valet  "good-night," 
163.  What  his  mother  heard  in  the 
night,  163.  Weight  of  his  brain,  164. 
His  ancestry,  165.  His  love  of  ant  and 
artists,  166.  His  early  style,  167.  His 
companions  at  the  "  Punch  "  dinners, 
168.  His  love  of  children,  170.  The 
Thackeray  Quadrilateral,  170.  He 
offers  himself  as  M.  P.  for  Oxford,  171. 
He  is  defeated,  172.  His  troubles  as 
editor  of  "The  Cornhill,"  172.  He 
offers  to  increase  a  charitable  subscrip 
tion,  174.  His  last  dinner  at  the 
Garrick  Club,  174.  His  fondness  for 
quoting  Horace,  176.  His  poetry,  177. 
His  first  friends,  178.  His  opinion  of 


his  early  satiric  writing,  178.  Where 
he  wrote  "  Vanity  Fair,"  180.  The 
reality  of  his  creations  to  him,  180. 
His  opinion  of  Juvenal,  181.  He  takes 
off  his  hat  to  Addison,  181.  What  he 
thought  of  one  touch  in  "  Vanity  Fair," 
182.  His  conversation,  182.  His 
house,  185.  He  proposed  to  illustrate 
Dickens's  first  book,  187.  He  came  to 
dinner,  "because  he  could  not  help 
it,"  187.  Stamping  about,  laughing, 
187.  He  asks  Dickens  to  tell  the  Ox 
ford  voters  who  he  was,  188.  His 
feeling  with  regard  to  boys,  188.  His 
latest  "and  last  story,  189.  His  last  cor 
rected  words  in  print,  190.  Memo 
rial  poem  in  "  Punch,"  191.  Memorial 
poem  in  ''  Fun,"  191.  Memorial  poem 
by  Lord  Houghton,  193.  Memorial  by 
T.  W.  Parsons,  194.  "  Adsum  "  by  R. 
H.  Stoddard,  195.  Thackeray's  idea  of 
popularity,  222.  The  Queen  purchases 
a  book  from  his  library,  237. 

Turner,  J.  W.  M.  Thackeray's  criticism 
of  his  "  Fighting  Temeraire,"  82. 

"  Wagers,  The  Devil's,"  23. 

Wagstaffe,  Theophile.      A  nom  de  plume 

of  Thackeray,  26. 
Wordsworth,  William.     Mock  sonnet  on 

by  Thackeray,  23. 

Yates,  Edmund.  He  describes  Thackeray 
in  "  Town  Talk,"  154-  Thackeray's 
letter  to  him,  155.  Dickens  writes 
to  Thackeray  concerning  him,  157. 


g 


Thackeray  replies  in  re  Yates,  158. 
Young,    Julian.     His   delight    at    dinin 
with  "  Boz,"  223.    He  deprecates  com 
parisons  between  Dickens  and  Thack 
eray,  223. 


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